


The Longboat Killer

by RedChucks



Series: Original Murder Mysteries [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Australian story, Bisexual Character, Gay Character, M/M, Murder Mystery, Trans Character, queer romance, romance/thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-02 19:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 88,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19448422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedChucks/pseuds/RedChucks
Summary: In the late nineteen-nineties a serial killer known as the Longboat Killer terrorised the people of the small city of Adelaide before the killings mysteriously stopped. Twenty years later a student researching the killings goes missing and David finds himself on the trail of a shadow of a man who fits none of the usual profiles.If this wasn't enough David, and his boyfriend Dillon, are still coming to terms with life after the events at Port Evans, when Dillon was kidnapped and nearly killed, and what it means to be in his first long term relationship.A sequel to 'A Matter of Pride'.





	1. Chapter 1

Her lungs burning painfully and the tang of blood in her throat Candice ran, her heart frantic, the thin soles of her boots slipping on the tiles as she rounded the corner, knocking books from their shelves as she went, desperate to put some distance between herself and the archives room. The large outdated building was dark and deeply shadowed but Candice knew her way; even by the dim reflected glow of the streetlight outside the window she knew the measure of every room and aisle. She’d practically grown up in this library and even if it had been a few years since her last visit, she still knew the place better than anywhere else in the world. It was her favourite place, her hallowed place, but those words suddenly seemed to take on a different meaning entirely and she tried to blink away the tears as she ran. She could not die like this, could not let her life end in such a way. She just needed to make it to the door, to call for help, there was even a small police station in the row of local shops across the road, she recalled, and once she was there it would all be over and she would be safe. She just had to get out of the library.

Somewhere in the darkness she could hear footsteps moving steadily after her and she doubled her efforts, the sobs escaping her throat against her will as she slipped again, hitting the hard floor hands first, jarring her wrists. In the gloom behind her she could see a shadow, a figure moving, seeming so terrifyingly large in the low light that Candice wanted to scream and cry and beg. After what had become of the others she knew that begging likely wouldn’t do her any good, and she did not want to end up like them, not if she could help it. She just needed to get out of the library so she could give the newspaper clippings to Detective Sharma and then everything would be fine. As long as she-

The clippings! Where had they gone? Candice spun back. She’d been holding them as she fled the archives room, but where were they now? She scrambled madly for a moment until she saw the faded clippings fluttering under a returns trolly and crawled quickly to snatch them up. The shadowy figure was still coming toward her, walking slowly like they were strolling through the parklands instead of hunting her down in a musty suburban library, but the long blade in their hand gave the truth to their intent, and the yellowed newspaper cuttings in hers were the proof. She clutched them tightly as she climbed to her feet and then thought better and stuffed the paper scraps down the front of her jeans, cursing the damn things for not having real pockets. Her bag was still on the floor by the archive work table and she had nowhere else to stash her evidence but if the person chasing her thought she’d dropped them they might just let her go.

She hadn’t meant to uncover something this dark, not really. Everybody she knew considered the Longboat Killings to be ancient history. It was a running joke that the murders had gone unsolved almost as long as the burial sites they had imitated and Candice had thought it would be an interesting topic for her criminology class. She’d hoped to show how the killer hadn’t fit with any of the usual stereotypes; how his victims had seemed random; how the decision to bury them in the style of ancient Vikings seemed purely aesthetic rather than properly meaningful; how he had killed using different methods each time; how he had stopped without apparent reason twenty-three years ago... until now.

Candice rounded the last row of shelves and let out a ragged laugh as she saw the glass doors up ahead. She was so close she could even see her car out at the end of the empty car park, but as she ran toward them the sliding doors stayed stubbornly shut and she hit them before she could convince her body to stop. The doors were set to automatic and the librarian who’d let her stay back after hours had told her that they would open to let her out but not to let anyone in, and that she didn’t need a key, but as she waved her hands under the sensor and banged on the glass nothing happened and she screamed in frustration. There had to be a release, a key or button but she didn’t know where it was and resorted to forcing her fingers between the two large sheets of glass to try and pull them apart as the tears streamed down her blotched cheeks and her panicked breath fogged the pane. 

“Oh, god! Oh, please no. Please don’t kill me? Please?” She turned back but could hardly see, her hair was hanging in front of her eyes, clinging to her cheeks with tears and sweat. But even through the blonde tangle, and in the dark, she could see the smile and the blade. “Please don’t kill me?” She begged again, pressing herself against the doors, still clawing desperately at the join, willing it to open and free her in the nick of time, but it didn’t budge. “I won’t tell anyone. I don’t even know anything. I was just... I was just researching a uni project. I don’t know anything, I don’t... please... Please don’t kill me? My mum, she needs me, she’s got MS, she’s sick. You can’t kill me. What about my mum?”

She wondered, as the knife sped towards her, why she didn’t move out of the way, but her body was frozen, her eyes focused on the large, sharp blade slicing through the air on its way to her abdomen. There was a moment of pain, a single moment of intense, burning, tearing pain as the blade moved upwards through her torso, and Candice heard the scream that left her lips, but it seemed far off, like it belonged to someone else, like a horror movie playing in another room. The pain blossomed for another moment as the blade reached her throat, and then she felt nothing. Nothing but wetness as the strength ebbed from her body and she slumped down. She wasn’t aware of her head hitting the tiles, or the deep red of her blood as it pooled out over them. She was gone by the time the large hands tangled themselves roughly in her hair and pulled her body upwards, didn’t see the green button in the corner that the killer punched carelessly to open the sliding doors. 

And by morning all trace that Candice Goodfellow had ever visited the Whitecove Library were gone, along with Candice Goodfellow.

***

David was bored. He had thought, when he’d been offered the position at Adelaide University, that it would help keep his brain occupied when there was nothing better to do. Instead it just seemed to have given him an extra office to feel claustrophobic in and another staff room full of colleagues that he couldn’t remember the names of. And a whole lot more paperwork. 

He had been led to believe, when he transferred to Adelaide, that there would be enough violent crime to warrant his being there and he’d certainly heard the city’s reputation for odd killings and gangs - twenty years ago it had been given the dubious title of ‘Serial Killer Capital of Australia’ - but in the last year and a half it had been stiflingly quiet. He’d been leant out to Melbourne once in the last twelve months to help with a series of suspicious deaths there, and had agreed to the lecturing job, knowing it was only two days a week and perfectly manageable, but there were still too many hours in the day, or at least too many hours that he needed to fill pretending to work when he’d much rather be at home.

He smiled softly as he sat back and looked at the photographs on his desk, and the man who was the subject of the largest two. He had first met Dillon Kelly eighteen months ago and had shared a home with him for nearly a month: four wonderful weeks. He had never dreamed he would still be in love with someone after such a stretch of time but it felt good and he’d never been able to hide or deny his feelings when it came to Dillon. The first photograph made him chuckle quietly to himself; Dillon pulling a face and holding on to a walking frame for dear life, the day he finally got back on his feet after nearly two months on his back in the hospital. The memory of it made David smile. He’d been so proud, so besotted. They had known each other for nine whole weeks at that point and it had taken all of David’s will power to rent a different house for Dillon when he finally left the hospital and not simply move him in to his tiny flat and propose to him on the spot. Life had been too complicated then, but now, eighteen months down the track...

David turned his attention to the other photo, the one that Dillon claimed was embarrassing but which David refused to get rid of. He had caught Dillon unawares, looking out over the Port Evans beach at their friends’ wedding, the light catching his fine boned features perfectly as the wind blew his long brown hair back from his face. David called it the ‘Model Shot’ and Dillon mostly responded to that by calling David a prick but in reality David couldn’t look at the picture without an intense warmth spreading through his chest. He wanted to go home and kiss the man right then, but technically he was being paid to be in his office in case any students needed to track him down. 

He didn’t mind being a lecturer, didn’t mind teaching third years about the various schools of thought when it came to dealing with a suspected serial killer. He had more than his fair share of experience when it came to tracking murderers, was considered something of an expert in fact, though he was the first to admit that he was a bit young to be considered so. Still, he did his best to make the weekly lectures interesting, though it wasn’t easy. There was no way to make murder pleasant and he didn’t want his students thinking that a career in criminology would be fun or easy or even particularly enjoyable most of the time. It was necessary work, that was the truth of it, and he intended for any student of his to be well versed and knowledgable, and most of them were shaping up rather well.

There was only one student bothering him at present, and not because she wasn’t keeping up with the work. If anything she’d been the top of the class and he’d expected her major project for the course to be something truly brilliant, but then she’d stopped showing up to classes, and it bothered him. He looked down at the synopsis she had handed in a few weeks back. It was brilliant, there was no denying it. He’d heard of the Longboat Killer, everyone had, but it had been before his time and he’d never studied it in depth so had been looking forward to her take on it, but now she hadn’t been heard from in two weeks and David wondered whether his mounting suspicion was warranted. She didn’t seem like the sort to just drop out, not half way through her third year, and David found his mind wandering, his overactive imagination suggesting all manner of sticky ends the woman might have come to. Then again, it was more likely that the reason for her disappearance was less violent and more mundane. 

A tap on his door made him jump and for half a second he was confused as to why Dillon had shown up at his office, until he focused his eyes properly and realised that the only similarity was the cane, and that the person standing in the doorway wasn’t his boyfriend at all, but a woman with short, blonde hair and a tired, drawn face. 

“Hello, can I help you?” David tried to make his voice friendly but the woman still blanched and David tried to make himself non-threatening as he held out a hand to offer her the seat opposite his.

“Are you Sharma?” she asked warily. “The serial killer lecturer? She said Professor Sharma was an Indian man, and a right looker, with an office on the third floor. And I’ve snooped in every office along this corridor and you are the only one who fits that description.”

David bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself smiling. He appreciated a certain amount of bluntness, it made it easier to get the measure of a person’s character, whether they were a student or a suspect, though the woman standing just outside his office didn’t appear to fit either of those descriptions. 

“Indeed I am,” he nodded, giving her time to walk slowly in to the room and sit down before he continued. “Detective Inspector David Sharma, at your service. What can I do for you?”

The woman looked nervous, not to mention unwell. Her skin was so pale it was tinged with grey and there were dark rings under her eyes. David tried to keep his voice quiet and calm, but his curiosity had been piqued and it was hard to keep it under wraps. She seemed familiar somehow but he couldn’t quite put his finger on where he might have seen her before.

“Detective? So, you’re police then?” David nodded, noting the bitterness in her tone. “Well that’s just my luck, isn’t it? Still, maybe you’ll listen better than the local coppers, huh? Or are you going to tell me to quit worrying and go on home same as them?”

David tried not to react to the hostility. It hid pain, that was obvious enough, but he couldn’t quite see where it was coming from or why she had ended up at his office at the university rather than at the city precinct.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait and see about that, but I won’t be able to answer unless you tell me the problem, Ms?”

“Goodfellow,” she replied, the anger fading from her voice and the worry returning. “Helen Goodfellow. My daughter was a student of yours; Candice. She disappeared two weeks ago, and- and it’s not like her. They keep telling me not to jump to conclusions but how can I not? She’s a homebody, a bookworm, interested in facts and getting to the truth of things. She wouldn’t just run off, she never has, and none of her things are gone from the house, just her backpack with her uni notes. Only no one but me seems to think it’s important, or that I should be worried. They think I’m just some mad old woman, even threatened to arrest me if I kept coming in to the station. And Candice thought... thinks, the world of you. So I thought...”

The words tumbled forth from her mouth with increasing speed and David felt a shudder run down his spine, his mind already whirring as it tried to detect any clues in the words and what little he knew of Candice Goodfellow. His anger boiled that the woman before him had been treated so badly and that her fears for her daughter’s safety hadn’t been looked in to. He looked back up at her, seeing the family resemblance that had tricked his mind in to thinking they might have met, and the deep fear that was weighing heavy on the frail woman’s body. She was clutching the handle of her walking stick tightly and David recognised the action, Dillon had done it often enough when attempting to ground himself and keep a hold of his emotions, and he wondered what might happen if he were to push her, just a little.

“Did you formally report her missing?” he asked, waiting for her ‘yes’ before asking his next question. “And are you sure she didn’t just decide to cut her ties and move on? Young people do that sometimes, especially while at university. Can you be sure she didn’t move interstate or in with a boyfriend or a girlfriend? It can’t be easy for her, after all.”

He watched as Helen’s anger flared with every question, and left her with the final, leading statement to see what information it might bring. He was fishing but it was a tactic that worked more often or not, and got him answers quicker than anything else did. 

“Oh, so you know about all this, do you?” she asked, lifting her cane and her eyebrow in derision. “Well, you’re right, it’s not easy on her. It’s not easy having MS and it’s not easy caring for someone with MS but Candice was not the sort of girl to just leave, no matter how she might have felt, caring for her mum. We’re close. It’s always been her and me, ever since she was born. I’d know if she’d just left. I’d know if she was still...”

David sat forward in his chair and stared at the woman opposite him. It was a far from comfortable thing to do, staring at someone as they cried, but he was trying to see what was really there. His own mum had told him on more than one occasion that mothers had a sixth sense when it came to their kids and while he didn’t think it was true of all mothers, Helen Goodfellow certainly seemed genuine.

“You don’t believe she’s still alive, do you?” he asked carefully and watched as the last of her strength left her. Her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes for a long painful, moment, her hand moving upwards to close tightly over the pendant she wore at her throat before looking up at him, her red rimmed eyes burning in to his dark ones as she spoke. 

“She was born early you know,” she told him in a tired, blank voice. “Twenty-nine weeks. She was a tiny, sick little thing, though you wouldn’t know it now. And after she was born... she died. Just for a minute. Died as the doctors rushed to stick a tube down her throat and I... I felt it. And I know it’s not evidence, I know that no police man or detective in his right mind is going to base his investigation off of mother’s intuition. I know that. But it feels the same. My heart feels empty. And my daughter... feels gone.”

A couple of years ago, David knew, he probably wouldn’t have taken the woman as seriously as he was now. He had been singleminded in his adoration of facts and facts alone, but he’d learnt a lot since then, and understood something of the dread this mother had to be feeling, and the truth of her heart over what little evidence she had available. It helped that he had just been contemplating Candice’s disappearance himself. Her mother was right, she had been a reliable sort of woman, not the sort to just run off, and she’d been passionate about her degree. She was on the list to be offered an Honours scholarship and every member of the faculty agreed that she was the brightest student in her year. He imagined that it would take something awfully big, or awfully serious, to force Candice out of her busy but predictable life. It didn’t hurt that he also had no other real work to do. He’d wrapped up his last case a week ago and had updated all of his students’ participation scores and while he had other work that he could be getting on with something in his head was screaming that this was far more important.

“When exactly did you last see Candice, Ms. Goodfellow?” he asked, shifting in to his more accustomed, senior detective voice, and saw her let out a relieved breath at how seriously he was taking her. He passed her the box of tissues from the end of his desk, the one he had because he always kept a box on his desk, even if this one hadn’t been used at all, and she took one gratefully.

“It was a Wednesday afternoon,” she told him. “She was heading out to the library and told me she might not get home until a little later than usual. It was left-overs night, so she got out some soup from the freezer and...” she looked away in embarrassment but David didn’t try to interject or hurry her up. People remembered things in different ways and he’d found that he learnt a lot more if he simply let them talk. People rarely blurted out the crux of their problem straight away; they had to work up to it. “I know she didn’t come home because it was still there on the counter the next morning. And I called the library, but they said there was nothing to suggest she’d had any trouble. She’d been the last to leave, they said, and there was no sign of her car, and... I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot of information for you.”

“That’s alright,” he told her softly. “You’ve given me a great starting point. I can go over to the library now, and we can ask for security footage.”

“No,” Ms. Goodfellow interrupted him, her hand shaking violently as she continued to clasp her necklace. “No it wasn’t the university library, sorry. It was our local library. It’s funny,” she continued with a smile that seemed far from happy. “She hadn’t been to that library since she left high school. Why would she when she’d discovered the uni library with its multiple floors and wonderful computer system and colour photocopier? That’s what she said. But this latest project... she wanted to get it just right, you know? To impress you, I think. She had a bit of a crush on you, truth be told, though she didn’t say as much to me. It was just... mother’s intuition again, I guess. But she wanted her project to be the best and apparently that required a trip to our little local library and it’s dusty old archives room. I don’t know what she expected to find that she couldn’t get here but...”

David nodded thoughtfully. His brain was shouting at him that he had just been handed a clue and his naturally suspicious mind was kicking in to action but he needed to tread carefully. Despite his own feelings and the feelings of Helen Goodfellow he needed to build a case before he turned this in to an official police investigation. He turned his attention back to the woman opposite him as he thought through his options, whilst his forebrain occupied itself by rattling off possible facts about the woman that he could glean from her appearance and body language. She looked older than she probably was and there was more silver in her hair than blonde, but she had large intelligent eyes like her daughter and a smooth, heart-shaped face. Her clothing was too big for her, his brain told him, and the way she was holding the pendant around her neck didn’t look quite natural, or at all comfortable; David suspected a muscle spasm but didn’t want to rush in to any assumptions about her abilities. He’d only known one other person with Multiple Sclerosis and she had mostly told him about the fatigue and muscle pain she experienced, though he knew she had suffered from spasms as well, and that they had been unpleasant.

He hadn’t known about the MS, or that Candice was her mother’s carer, but wasn’t surprised that Candice had held that fact close to her chest; she hadn’t wanted any pity or for anyone to think she couldn’t cope, but he wished she’d told him. Caring for someone who was battling pain and disability whilst maintaining your own sanity was an area he knew quite a bit about and he could have helped, but it was too late to dwell on that now. He needed to act, and he needed to make sure that Helen Goodfellow was safe. 

“Did you drive in here, Ms. Goodfellow?” he asked lightly, wondering whether she would give him a truthful answer.

She gave him a long and considering look before answering, as if she could tell that there was more to the question than what David was making out. “No, actually,” she said eventually. “I don’t drive anymore. I caught the train.”

“Right,” David nodded. He glanced at the clock up on the wall and made his final decision. It was so close to being four-thirty that it was practically five to his mind and therefore time to leave, and if anyone took him to task over his early exit he’d tell them it was a university emergency. He was checking on the welfare of a student and her family after all. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to give you a lift home. I think I’d like to take a look at Candice’s room and any notes she’d put together, any clues she might have left that could tell us more about where she is now. And then you can point me in the direction of the library, if you don’t mind? I’ll need to have a chat with the staff there about Candice’s movements that evening. Any books she might have looked at, people she might have talked to, that sort of thing. Is that alright?”

He could see fresh tears welling in the woman’s tired eyes as he spoke and wondered if she was going to refuse him. After all, Candice had learnt her independence and doggedness somewhere, but instead she nodded, tight lipped like she was afraid she might cry if she spoke, and David gave her a small, solemn smile as he stood and walked around to offer her a hand. She took it after a moment’s hesitation and stood unsteadily, one hand still held tightly to her chest, and together they made their way out to David’s car. 

There was a feeling brewing in his chest as he looked out across the university and the picturesque river and gardens at the bottom of the hill. It was a tightness that had all too often been a precursor to violence and mystery and serious trouble, and he tried not to feel excited at the prospect. He just needed to get his facts in order and present the case to his boss, if there was one. Like as not he wouldn’t be the one to investigate if there was anything to warrant an investigation. One poor missing girl was hardly a serial killer and therefore not really his specialty. Gathering the facts, that was the thing. He just needed to gather the facts and-

“Sorry,” he smiled sheepishly as he unlocked his car and retrieved his phone from his pocket. “I’ll just need to text my other half before we set off, to let him know I’ll be late. He’ll worry otherwise and he is a world-class worrier.”

The smile he got in return was a melancholy one but also intensely motherly, and she got in to the car with an understanding nod, and after a moment David did too, and they began the drive out to the south of the city and the sleepy suburb of Whitecove. 

*

Out beyond the expressway a dust coated excavator trundled forward to release the dirt from it’s shovel, completing a shallow three-sided mound in the unremarkable worksite. There was nothing to mark the spot as otherwise significant and the excavator trundled away, back to the hole that had been left some way off. It too would need filling, soon. 

The driver of the excavator jumped down unsteadily and surveyed the space, noting its length and depth before gazing proudly back at the mound that had just been made. It had been so long since they had made one, so long since they had dug any holes or appropriated a broken boat from one of the old coastal piers, but it had all come back so easily. It had been like muscle memory, and it had been glorious. 

Squinting in to the evening sun they watched the cars speed out along the expressway and grinned grimly. With the girl out of the way there was no one to suspect them, no one with any clue of who they were, which meant that the mounds could grow again, and there would be no one to stop them except... There was one, but she was old, she wouldn’t dare. And even if she did, she hadn’t been able to solve his clues all those years ago, back when she’d been in her prime, she would hardly be able to do it now. Once she had been the reason for it all, their obsession and their love, now she was a footnote, and that fact was likely the best insult they could pay her. 

No, there was no one to tear down this tribute to their intelligence now. The tribute to their brilliance. Last time the mounds had been uncovered and desecrated almost as fast as they’d been made but this time would be different and within the lifeless earth the bodies would lie, perfect and preserved and a testament to their superiority and the fact that they could not be caught or matched. 

And now there was only one thing left to do, and that was to choose who would be next. The hole was made, the boat was prepared. They were ready this time. The first had been a surprise, for them both, and the girl’d had to stay in the freezer until all of the preparations could be made, but now there were boats aplenty and a perfect site. All that was needed now was a second body, and there were so many to choose from. 

They turned to survey the barren ground and looked up at the twitch of a curtain in one of the few houses left in the area. Most had been bulldozed to make way for the new overpass but there were always a few folk who refused to take the settlement and insisted on staying put, even when their homes were surrounded by dust and drills and trucks. They weren’t usually sociable sorts. They were the perfect sort. And soon they would sail.


	2. Chapter 2

‘Going to be late. Something’s come up. Love you. x’

Dillon looked down at his phone and chewed his lip. It was no big deal, he hadn’t made anything special for tea, didn’t need David home for any reason, but he was still nervous. He knew what that message meant, David had sent it before, and no doubt would again. A message like that told him that David had a case, and that was both good and bad news. When he messaged Dillon to say that something had come up but gave no further information it usually meant that at least one person was dead and David was on the heels of a killer. The very thought of it made Dillon shiver and he hoped David would at least make it home before he went to bed. He wouldn’t sleep otherwise. 

He tried not to dwell on it and stared off into the evening sky, attempting to calm his mind and breathing and remind himself that David had a job to do and that it sometimes required him to work odd or long hours, and that it wasn’t just an excuse to avoid his company. But the thoughts were stubborn and Dillon couldn’t quite shake them. David been acting like a caged cat for at least a week, desperate for something new to occupy his brain, and Dillon wondered whether the quietness of their small home city was finally getting to him, and whether he regretted leaving his job in Sydney in favour of a life with Dillon.

A screech from Kiwi jolted him from his thoughts and he smiled at the budgie as it bobbed at him and chattered away as he filled her feeding tray. David thought that he spoilt the birds, their aviary took up a substantial amount of the backyard and was decked out with perches and nesting boxes, but he was good natured in his ribbing and knew how much Dillon loved his two budgerigars. They had been a present from David after all.

Kiwi flew down to join Guava, who was already tucking in to her dinner, and Dillon left them to it, walking carefully across the yard to the back door, contemplating David’s text and what he knew would be coming if he did indeed have a case. There would be a lot of pacing, a lot of early mornings and copious coffee drinking, a lot of swearing as he searched fruitlessly for his shoes, and a lot of long, exhausting, late nights. There was little time for Dillon in David’s world when he had a case but Dillon was slowly learning that it didn’t actually mean that David didn’t care for him. David did love him, he just happened to love his job as well, and to be better at it than most. 

Things had gotten easier for Dillon since he’d been able to go back to work. He had a life beyond their little home, his own passions and his own hobbies, and really he couldn’t complain. He was happier than he thought he’d ever be, most of the time, and if the price he had to pay for that happiness was a boyfriend who lost his shoes under couches, who thought toasted cheese sandwiches counted as healthy food, and who occasionally risked his life to arrest dangerous criminals, then it was a price he would just have to pay.

‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he texted as he walked through the back door and in to the kitchen, grimacing at the pull of his thigh muscle as he did so. ‘Shall I wait up?’

As happy as he was he knew that things weren’t exactly perfect in their relationship, no matter what David said, or didn’t say, and he sat down gingerly at the kitchen table, staring at the vegetables he needed to prepare for the dinner they wouldn’t be sharing. Sometimes David was bored living in a little suburban home in a little city that barely deserved the title, even with the added interest of a second job down at the university he got restless and Dillon’s ongoing health issues weren’t making things any easier on them, or their relationship. He’d spent too many months on his back over the last few years, as his surgeons attempted to repair the damage that had been done by Martin White, the man who’d murdered his last boyfriend, abducted him, and nearly killed him twice. 

His pelvis had been successfully reconstructed but shards of bone had pierced his intestines and his body had never felt quite right after. Even on a good day he still limped noticeably and couldn’t walk far. It had made it difficult to show his love, physically, and that had in turn put a strain on their relationship that Dillon felt even when David denied it. They didn’t even kiss like they had used to do, and Dillon worried that David’s love was starting to wane. He wanted to show him that he was ready to move forward in their relationship, that he was no longer the invalid that David had to tiptoe around and treat so delicately, and he wanted to be touched again. The blunt and bare truth was that Dillon wanted to have sex with his boyfriend, but hadn’t been able to for almost as long as they’d been together. It made him want to cry but he wasn’t about to start sobbing over carrots and parsnips and so set to, peeling them ready for the oven, taking out his frustration on the vegetables instead. 

He needed a way to show David that he was trying, and that he loved him, that he didn’t want their relationship to fizzle and die the way he secretly feared it would. It actually frightened him a little, how much love he felt for the ridiculous, scruffy, curly-haired man, and he wanted a way to declare it to the world. He’d bought a ring on a whim a few weeks ago but worried that it was too soon to propose when there was still the uncomfortable cloud of their sex life hanging over them. He needed to get it sorted, he just didn’t know how. He was too scared.

“Oh, hello beautiful,” he murmured to the cat that strutted in to the room like a duke surveying his great estate. “Where have you been hiding? Hey, Trouble?”

Trouble glanced up and blinked before winding his way between Dillon’s legs, purring loudly as he settled himself down on the kitchen floor. He’d been considered un-adoptable when they’d met but Dillon was stubborn and within six months Trouble had given up his aloof facade and tendency to scratch and had turned in to the laziest, and most affectionate, cat Dillon had ever owned. And he had a purr that could rival any motorcycle. Minutes later Dillon found himself humming contentedly as he chopped the veg and set it in the oven pan. It was an old tune, a lullaby David had taught him, and it worked better than anything when it came to calming his mind. He didn’t even jump when his phone buzzed on the kitchen table and grinned when he saw David’s reply.

‘Will try to get back before it gets too late. And I never do anything stupid. I’ll bring ice cream and txt when I’m on my way. It’s nothing dangerous, just dropped someone home and now stopping off at library. Boring. Truly. Love you. x’

‘Love you too. Ice cream sounds perfect. Be safe. xx’

He breathed deep, willing the anxiety to recede. David was safe. He wasn’t off on some dangerous hunt for a madman or looking at bloodstains or corpses, and that was good. It was good, he told himself, because it meant that David was safe, but it also meant that he would come home bored and restless and Dillon hated to think that he was the cause of that frustration in the man he loved. Because David had transferred to Adelaide for him, had given up his Sydney life and high flying job to sit by Dillon’s hospital bed and guide him through the trial of the man who’d wanted to kill him, and Dillon feared what would happen when that frustration became too much. 

He sighed deeply as he stood and carried the veggies to the oven. He’d roast them slow, he decided, so that they wouldn’t dry out before David arrived home, that way they could have a late tea together and Dillon would be able to set his mind at ease a little. He poured himself a glass of wine as he let his thoughts settle and smiled when Trouble walked over and lay at his feet. He needed to find a way to give David the sex life he deserved, to keep their relationship moving forward after it had been stalled for so long, and he needed to find some way to convince himself that a move to a bigger, busier city, wasn’t absolutely terrifying, if that was what David wanted.

He stood in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and drinking his wine as he watched the sun set, lost in thought until his leg twinged painfully and he was forced to limp toward the lounge room to lie down on the couch. He picked up one of the books David had been reading, a true crime novel about the old Longboat murders, and began to flick through it. One of his students was studying it, David had told him, but had stopped short of giving Dillon any details. He was so careful to guard Dillon from any mention of murder and death, especially if water was involved in some way but from Dillon’s vague memories of those particular murders there hadn’t been any water involved. Boats yes, but no water. 

The Longboat Killer had been one of the big serial killers of the nineties, second only to the Snowtown murders and the infamous ‘Bodies in the Barrels’, and Dillon remembered how strange it had been, the discoveries of the burial mounds and the hype that had surrounded it all, and how suddenly it had all been forgotten, when the bodies stopped turning up, even though the killer had never been found. It was one of the reasons why Adelaide had been labeled the serial killer capital of the country and really, Dillon thought, it was a shame that David hadn’t been around back then, because at least then he wouldn’t have been quite so bored. 

The book was interesting enough, written by a local woman by the name of Madeline Magarey, and when Dillon looked up, hours later, he couldn’t believe how much time had passed. He stretched his leg, which had cramped badly, as it always did when he sat or lay too long in one position, and grabbed up his cane to help him get back to the kitchen to check on the dinner. There were no new messages from David but he told himself it was nothing to worry about. David would come home soon enough, he was sure; he always did.

***

David sat in the traffic, trying not to let his frustration run away with him, thinking back over everything he’d learnt over the last few hours. There wasn’t enough yet for him to realistically suspect foul play, not even enough to request an investigation, but he knew something was wrong and he had no intention of letting Helen Goodfellow down. By the time they had reached Helen’s home down in the southern suburbs he’d managed to get her chatting and she’d told him all about her daughter, the passionate and intelligent young woman David’d barely had a chance to know. He had asked what life had been like for the two of them, and Helen had given him one of those slow, sad smiles.

“I had to work rather long hours when she was young,” she told him somberly. “I did a factory shift in the morning, worked at the chippy in the evening. Candice learned to be fairly... independent. And from about the age of seven she refused to stay in the after school care. She hated school.”

“Really?” David blinked, glancing toward her before returning his eyes to the road. “I thought of her as proper, studious type.”

“Oh, she loved learning,” Helen agreed, she smile gaining some life as she continued, “always has. She just hated school. She’d tell her teachers that she was allowed to walk home and then take herself off to the library and stay there until it shut and then wander down to the chip shop and eat her tea at the counter. Always with her little nose in a book. Always so clever. Not at all like me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” David grinned. “I am an excellent judge of character and I can tell an intelligent woman when I see one.”

“And I know a flirt when I see one,” she told him tartly. “What about that partner of yours? Tell me about him. Cheer an old woman up.”

She’d laughed when David tried to hide his enthusiasm and his blush, and failed, and he’d ended up telling her all about Dillon, though he held back on the more frightening details of how they’d met. David had never been able to hide his feelings for Dillon, not since the night he’d been called out to the man’s house to investigate a break-in. By the time they reached Whitecove Helen was grilling him about when he intended to make an honest man of his ‘sweet boy’ and David had needed to change the subject before he slipped up and showed her the engagement ring he’d been carrying around in his coat pocket for the las two months.

“I don’t want to rush him,” he’d told her. “He’s been through so much. He needs to be sure of who he is, and honestly, he’s so nice, he wouldn’t know how to say no. He’d get married to save me the embarrassment. I need to give him time.”

“Funny,” Helen had replied with a smirk. “He doesn’t seem the ‘go slow’ type. How many days did you say it was before you told him you loved him and jumped in to his bed? Three? Four?” She’d chuckled in response to David’s embarrassed grimace but hadn’t pushed it when David changed the subject to whether she had been coping alright on her own without Candice.

Helen had been vague in her own answers after that and when they arrived at the small flat she let David look through Candice’s room and study notes on his own. She’d been studious to a fault and David gathered up the binder that she’d labelled ‘Longboat Killer’ but left the book she’d been reading where it sat on the edge of the desk, by her bed.

“I already have a copy of this one,” he told Helen when he saw her peaking around the faded door frame. “So I’ll leave this with you. You wouldn’t happen to know... is this all of Candice’s notes? Is there anything that you think should be here but isn’t?”

Helen bit her lip and shook her head, tears in her eyes as she looked at her daughter’s small, tidy bedroom, and David held back the urge to hurry her answer. She had been through too much already and he didn’t want to push her.

“Her phone. And she had a small notebook that she took everywhere, and a little voice recorder too. She’d been doing a few interviews, I think, of people who’d been around at the time of those murders. Even went to the big central station in the city, but I don’t know who she talked to.”

David nodded. “I’ll ask around. And I’ll head on over to the library now, if you’re okay here alone? I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

“I’ll be fine,” she told him quietly. “You’ve already done more than I thought you would. Thank you.”

David tried to believe it, that she would be fine. She was a grown woman after all, and had raised a daughter singlehandedly, yet something made him hesitate. 

“Look, even if I can put together a case, I doubt I’ll be the one heading it up. And as much as that is going to annoy the hell out of me, it does mean... it does mean that I can safely invite you over for dinner, as a friend. You shouldn’t be alone, not when all of this is happening.” 

He wanted to kick himself for the awkwardness of his offer; not for the first time David wished he could be as good at sincere conversation as he was at charming strangers and leading interrogations, but Helen gave him a kind smile all the same.

“That’s very kind, David, but I really will be alright. I promise. And I don’t drive any more, so going out in the evening isn’t really an option.”

“Oh,” David nodded. “Right. Sorry.”

“But you can come here?” she suggested. “Introduce me to your Dillon, tell me more about the course you teach and what Candice was learning about. I’d like that.”

“Thank you,” he told her as he left her daughter’s room and made his way back to the front of the flat. “It would put my mind at ease, to know that you’re alright.”

She gave him directions to the library before he left and he promised to call if he learnt anything important before he retuned the following evening. He didn’t expect to and he could see, by the way she gave him another of those sad smiles, that she didn’t either, but if nothing else he had made a friend and found a mystery to occupy his mind. 

He had left Helen’s flat in a good mood but it’d evaporated entirely by the time he found himself sitting in traffic, watching excavators trundle past, digging up the road in preparation for the new overpass. He’d done his best to charm the librarian but the man had been aloof to the point of rudeness, and hadn’t been able to tell David anything of much use. He had showed him the archives room and even the folder of newspaper clippings Candice had been interested in, but he couldn’t say much about the articles that were missing. He had told David that is was odd though, because Candice Goodfellow was not the sort to take something that didn’t belong to her, even if it was for her degree. David had mentioned that it may have had something to do with an unsolved crime, but the librarian had only shrugged and looked down his nose.

There were security cameras of course, on the entrances, but the council held sway over those and David suspected it would be harder to get that footage than it had been in Port Evans, when the killer himself had handed it over. No, he felt sure that this time it wouldn’t be nearly so easy, even if he could confidently assert that it was evidence. There wasn’t a lot more he could do, but David’s brain refused to admit defeat and as he sat in his car, unmoving and surrounded on all sides by other frustrated commuters, he grinned at the realisation that there was one other avenue he could explore.

He grabbed his phone from the passenger seat, hit the number that sat near the top of his favourites list, and set the handset to speaker before setting it back down beside him.

“Smith,” came the gruff voice and David smiled. He’d intended to leave a message but was glad he’d managed to actually get through to the man.

“Smith,” he answered with a grin, imagining he could actually hear the droll, unimpressed look on the man’s face. “Just the man I need. How are you this fine day?”

“It’s eight o’clock at night and I was about to head home, Sharma,” the older man told him grumpily. “Why are you so cheerful?”

David tried to quash his enthusiasm because he really did have no good reason for his light mood, but it was hard not to be annoyingly bright when he was talking to Detective Sergeant Smith, because he knew it annoyed the man so much.

“I need a favour,” he said a little more lackadaisically, aware that he did actually need the man’s help and couldn’t afford to really piss him off. “It’ll only take a moment. Please?”

There was a long suffering sigh but David knew Smith wouldn’t deny the request. The man was a sucker for a well placed ‘please’. “What do you need then?”

“Just need you to run a rego plate for me,” David answered, trying to sound casual, though by the sound of the grunt that came down the line, Smith wasn’t buying it.

“And you can’t do it yourself tomorrow because?”

“Because I will sleep better knowing that it’s been done tonight?” David suggested. His charm had never really worked on Tom Smith, but he was one of the few people in his current job who David trusted intrinsically, and who David knew would give him the truth when his brain ran away with him. “And when I sleep better then Dillon sleeps better?”

On the rare occasions when please didn’t work on Smith, David had learnt any mention of of his boyfriend would get him what he needed. The older man had a soft spot for Dillon Kelly and as much as he rolled his eyes when David waxed lyrical about him, it always made him smile. It was a dirty move but David wasn’t above mentioning Dillon when he needed to get Smith on side, and tonight was no exception.

“Alright then,” Smith said, hiding his smile under a resigned huff. “What number am I looking up and for what purpose?”

“A possible missing person. A student of mine hasn’t been seen for two weeks and her mum is concerned. I’m also quite concerned but apparently the plods at her local station were not. She filed a missing person report but couldn’t report the car because it’s not hers. The car’s been missing as long as the woman and since we can’t track her I thought we might try tracking the car.”

Smith snorted. “I’m not writing all that. ‘Suspected missing person’ will do. Okay, what’s the number?”

David flicked through his notebook until he found the right page and read out the number along with Candice’s full name and date of birth, trying not to get impatient with either the traffic or his sergeant as he sat drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He could hear the faint sound of Smith typing followed by the silence that indicated the department’s outdated computer system was processing the request with its usual excessive slowness. The traffic in his lane had finally started moving when Smith picked the phone back up with another, tired sigh.

“Nothing’s come up on it,” he said slowly, and David bit his tongue to keep from rushing in with a response. The way Smith had inhaled suggested he wasn’t done and David wanted to hear whatever it was he’d seen on his computer screen. “But nothing’s come up on the owner either. Candice Goodfellow isn’t registered as a missing person, Sharma. There’s been no report lodged.” David blinked. He wanted to yell but knew it would accomplish absolutely nothing, other than making him feel a little better, and even that wasn’t a sure thing. He settled for swearing quietly and viciously as the traffic finally began moving at a decent speed and only stopped when Smith cleared his throat in a meaningful, reprimanding way. “I’m putting an alert on the rego now. You can file the report and hand her case over to missing persons in the morning though, because I really am going home now.”

“Smith-” David began, but he didn’t get a chance to whine before the older man cut him off. 

“Look at it this way, Sharma,” Smith told him with more patience than he deserved. “It will give you something to do at least, so you won’t be quite so bored and tetchy. Now get gone from wherever you are and get home to your young man. And give him my best, you hear? G’night Inspector.”

He’d hung up before David had a chance to reply and he let out a frustrated huff through his nose in the silence of the car. It was just typical of this town to fail to lodge a missing person report properly, if it had even been just a simple case of human error and not maliciousness. He’d met too many cops who dismissed the women who came to them for help and it made him want to slap someone, but slapping every sexist cop in the state wasn’t really an option and would most definitely get him in trouble, not to mention hurt his hand. He’d lodge the report first thing in the morning, he decided, and a complaint against the Whitecove station while he was at it but then, he knew, it would stop being his business and he’d be uselessly frustrated again. The only things he had to look forward to were coming home to Dillon and getting to introduce him to Helen Goodfellow. He felt very distinctly that they would get along and couldn’t wait to get home so he could tell Dillon of their dinner plans. And maybe Helen was right, maybe it was time to talk to Dillon about where their relationship was going. Maybe it was time to move a little faster now, if Dillon was up to it.

***

Philip Bingle flicked the light switch frantically, trying to ignore the voice in his head that said it was a useless action, that the power had been cut, not wanting to believe what was happening. They’d all called him paranoid but they’d be laughing out the other side of their faces now, now that the men in their dark suits, the men with the shoulders like cliffs, the men made of death, had found him. The sound of the back window shattering frightened him enough to get him moving again, and he stumbled through the hallway toward the front door, his fear of the outside outweighed by his fear of what was coming, but he tripped over a stack of newspapers and fell in to a crate of old, empty beer bottles, whimpering as several of the bottles broke under his weight and cut in to his skin. 

The sound of the back door being opened drove him back to his feet, even though the foreign footsteps in his house made him want to scream and tear at his hair because it had been so long, so very long, since anyone had stepped foot inside his home, and he hated the thought of a stranger touching what was his and breathing his air. The fact that the stranger had seen him watching, had seen him at the window, barely registered now. Philip had seen the person bury something but he had no idea what it was. He didn’t care. He was being drowned by his panic and his need to escape the intruder.

He reached the front door, sobbing in relief as he turned the key in the deadlock, only to have the rug pulled out from under his feet with sudden force. He screamed as he hit the floor and pain rocketed up his leg; his daughter had warned him that a life spent indoors would weaken his bones but it seemed stupid to regret his decisions now, even if it was to be the death of him. He wondered if she would notice he was gone, whether she would care. He hoped she would. He hoped that she knew how much he still loved her.

Philip shut his eyes against what he knew was coming, against the stranger in his home. “Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me,” he muttered, a begged mantra as he curled in on himself, feeling the shadow of the intruder in his home fall across his face. He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t want to look at the face of a stranger, didn’t want to acknowledge that there really was a person in his house aside from himself. It was wrong, so wrong, and his brain refused to let it be true.

As the hands wrapped around his throat his eyes finally burst open and he began to shriek, thrashing about and pulling over crates of bottles, not caring if they smashed as long as they made enough noise to attract some attention, but it was no use. The hands tightened on his skin and no one came. There were no neighbours left after all, only cars and diggers and jack hammers, and dirt. No one heard his screams or the gurgled chokes that came when he no longer had breath, no one but the intruder. He could have fought back. He could have at least tried to pry the hands away from his neck, but couldn’t bear to. Even as the light and pain began to fade and he knew he was dying Philip Bingle couldn’t bring himself to touch the hands of another human being.

And as he breathed his last the intruder exhaled as well. There was a boat waiting for this old man, and a hole in need of a mound, and so many precious items to chose from. Beyond the house the traffic moved slowly on and a few minutes later, when the lights flickered back on in the lonely little house, no one noticed anything untoward. By morning there was nothing to notice at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Dillon fidgeted with his phone and frowned. He wanted to call David but had no good reason to. He only had one hour left on his shift in any case and knew that he could wait that long to hear David’s voice and to tell him how much he loved him but the urge to contact him was still there and Dillon couldn’t seem to budge it. David would likely be too busy to take a personal call anyway, he told himself; would find it embarrassing and inconvenient probably. And Dillon didn’t want to be an inconvenience.

He’d attempted to start something romantic the night before but had failed miserably as usual. When David had arrived home with ice cream and they’d actually sat down for dinner it had been quite late, and by the time they had crawled in to bed together David had been yawning and smiling at him with that tired, dopey grin of his, and despite the kisses Dillon had pressed to his lips he hadn’t responded with more than a fierce hug, and so Dillon had decided to leave it. In the morning, he’d thought to himself. We’ll do something in the morning, before work. It’ll be nice. But to Dillon’s immense surprise, when he woke up the next day it was to an empty bed and to the sight of David already dressed and halfway through his second cup of coffee.

David was not a morning person usually. In fact, he seemed to be morally affronted whenever someone admitted to being an early riser in his company, so in Dillon’s mind David waking before him could mean only one thing. He claimed he didn’t have a case but Dillon knew this behaviour and it usually meant that David was switching in to detective mode. There had been only one case that David hadn’t shared with him, and that had been when the killer had been targeting gay men and’d had Dillon in his sights, normally they shared everything, or at least as much as they could, and so David’s sudden tight-lipped attitude made him feel deeply uncomfortable. He didn’t like being lied to, or that David would feel a need to hide something from him, and he had watched his boyfriend swear at his tie and search for his shoes with the horrible weight of suspicion settling in his chest.

Dillon had wanted to ask outright what was happening but couldn’t bear the thought of an argument, or of David accusing him of being paranoid. He knew it was a problem, knew how David must feel about living with someone who insisted on checking and rechecking locks, who looked askance at friends and strangers alike, and who preferred animals to people. It was difficult for both of them and Dillon didn’t want to cause a fight. He didn’t want David to leave. He still struggled to understand how a man so handsome and brilliant had ended up with him, and as happy as he often was, he was terrified too. 

He looked down at his mobile again and swung on his chair a little behind the rescue centre counter. It was a quiet day. He was up to date with the week’s paperwork and had cleaned the counter and waiting room so thoroughly that his boss had ordered him to sit down and take a break. There was nothing to do, no surgeries scheduled for the rest of the afternoon, and he was killing time until his shift was over.

‘Hey Love. How’s things?’ he typed quickly before he could over think things any more. David could ignore a text if he needed to, or wanted to.

‘I think I’m about to get chewed out by my boss,’ came the immediate response, and Dillon let out a snort of laughter at the thought of David getting told off like a naughty school boy.

‘That sucks. Do you deserve it?’

‘For once, no. Which makes it twice as frustrating.’

Dillon couldn’t repress his smile any longer and it spread gently across his face as he looked down at his phone. It wasn’t the first time David’d had trouble with the commissioner, and it sparked a protective flare within his chest, but Dillon knew that his man could hold his own. The commissioner was getting on in years and word had it that he had already tried to retire, only to be told that it wasn’t an option until after he’d been cleared by a investigation into corruption and missing finances that was currently going on out in Canberra. Dillon didn’t know all of the details, it all seemed very complicated, but he did know that David tended to end up on the receiving end of his boss’s bad temper more often than was fair.

‘I was going to catch the tram in to the city after my shift,’ he wrote hurriedly as he saw someone approaching the rescue centre doors. ‘Want to meet me for a late lunch? You can bitch and debrief?’

‘Sounds perfect. Thank you, Love. x’

‘Cool. I’ll txt you my ETA once I’m done. Love you. x’

Dillon stashed his mobile under the counter as the door opened and gave a welcoming smile to the man who entered. 

“G’day young Dillon,” said the man as he approached the counter. “You haven’t been doing my job for me again, have you?”

“Hi Mike,” Dillon laughed in return. “Nah, I um, haven’t, um, cleaned anything out back and I’m not,” he cleared his throat to swallow the anxiety that always rose when his lips wouldn’t release the words. “I’m not, not allowed to do the floors so, so, so there’ll be plenty, um, for you to do still.”

“Glad to hear it.”

The centre’s cleaner chuckled and pushed his hands in to his pockets as he took in the clean waiting room. He was an unassuming man, strongly built and nearing sixty, with short silver hair and pale blue eyes and a quiet, if gruff, manner that Dillon admired. He wasn’t chatty by any stretch but he was kind and had been the most welcoming person in the centre when Dillon had first come to work there. 

“Aren’t um, aren’t you a bit early though?” Dillon asked, glancing at the time on his phone. “Don’t trust me not to, to, to scrub the loos before you get to it?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Mike grinned. “But I actually came to ask whether that little mutt that came in the other day has been adopted yet?”

Dillon grinned wide at that, knowing exactly which dog Mike meant. “Um, no, he’s still here, but, I, I, I reckon he’ll be pleased to see you. Shall I, um, get the paperwork ready?”

The little Jack Russell had been brought in at the beginning of the week, covered in mud and horribly malnourished, and lacking both a collar and a microchip. Dillon had felt sorry for the little guy, especially because he was older which made him less likely to be adopted, but Mike had taken to him straight away and the small dog had taken to Mike just as fast. He limped through to the kennels and saw Mike opening the Jack Russell’s cage door, kneeling down to let the stray jump up and lick his face and yap at him excitedly. They were a perfectly matched pair he decided as he walked them both out to the front counter and watched as Mike pulled a collar out of his pocket to put around the dog’s neck.

“Come on now, pup,” he said gently, “let’s get you set.”

“I’ll just need to, to, um, fill out the adoption paperwork,” Dillon said with a grin. “So it’s Mike... um, sorry, I don’t quite remember your surname, sorry.”

“Oh, it’s Magarey,” Mike smiled. “Michael Magarey.”

Dillon blinked, trying to remember where he’d heard the name before it finally clicked in his head. 

“You’re not, um, not related to Madeline Magary are you? The author? She, she, she wrote‘Mystery of the Adelaide Longboat Killer’?” He tried not to look too horribly curious but by the look on Mike’s face he’d uncovered a secret that none of their other workmate’s knew about.

“Well, in a past life,” Mike said in a voice that was just above a whisper, eyes darting around to ensure they were alone, “in a past life Madeline Magary was my name. But I haven’t written in a long time. I put it behind me see, back when I transitioned, about fifteen years ago, and I’d appreciate your not spreading it round if you don’t mind.” He looked concerned, if not ashamed, and Dillon nodded quickly. He’d known Mike was trans for a few months but hadn’t wanted to know his deadname. For a moment Mike seemed relieved at Dillon’s ready acquiescence but soon enough his lined face had twisted in to a scowl as he gave Dillon a hard look. “You shouldn’t be reading that book though. It wasn’t pleasant, all of that... death, and you... you know, I still keep up with the news and police reports,” he nodded meaningfully. “Even if I’ve not been a journalist for fifteen years. I know who you are. I know what happened. You shouldn’t be reading books like that one.”

Dillon blinked rapidly again but couldn’t convince his mouth to make any words, could barely breathe. He understood all too well Mike’s desire to keep certain elements of his past a secret. He had been waiting for someone to recognise him from the newspapers but he’d been lucky up until that point. The story of Martin White and the stranglings in Port Evans had been out of the papers for months by the time he started looking for a job and he’d managed to land a position where no one noticed him much, but now he could feel the anxiety bubbling up through his lungs and flooding his brain with the memories of the hit-and-run, the abduction, the trial. He wanted to be free of it but couldn’t seem to think or breathe or even move.

Only the sudden yapping of the Jack Russell at his feet was enough to break him free from the spiraling panic, and a second later Mike was there, holding his shoulders securely and telling him to take deep, calming breaths. Little by little the thudding panic receded until Dillon no longer felt the urge to vomit, and his breath no longer burned his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Dillon whispered, fighting the urge to run and hide, which he couldn’t very well do when there was a little dog sitting on his foot.

“No,” Mike told him softly. “No, I’m sorry. I know what that sort of thing can do to a person, I’ve seen it enough times. I should’ve been more sensitive bringing it up but it’s been a while. I’m sorry, mate. You just caught me by surprise, I suppose. It’s been a while since I owned up to writing that book and my mouth ran away from me a touch. I don’t think you should be reading about crime and murder, though, no matter how old. It’s not the healthy way to cope with these things. It can make them worse.”

Dillon took a few more moments to recover himself before stepping back and returning to his place behind the desk. He didn’t want to make things weird with one of the few people he actually thought of as a friend. Mike let him go but still seemed concerned, hovering close with his hand out and ready in case Dillon should trip or faint or god knew what, but Dillon stepped out of reach and tried to focus his attention back on the papers in front of him and the waiting adoption form. Just because he always felt like there weren’t enough hugs in the world didn’t mean other people should have to indulge him. After a moment Mike gently took the pen from his hand and filled out the paperwork, smiling down from time to time as the little dog trotted happily around him, mouth open in a wide grin and tongue lolling out. 

“What, um, what are you going to call him then?” Dillon asked once he felt he had his emotions back under control. “Most dogs have a name for life but we don’t know his.”

“Oh, I do,” Mike grinned. “I asked him the other night. It’s Potato Chip. Chip for short.”

“Chip. It suits him,” Dillon said with a small smile. “I’m glad he’s going to, to, to a good home.”

Mike answered by picking up Chip and bouncing him in his arms like a baby, smiling at the old dog affectionately, though the look he gave Dillon was far more grave.

“You shouldn’t be reading that book, Dillon, I mean it. Those murders were nasty, everything about that case was nasty. I don’t even know how so many people still have copies of it. A few weeks ago a young girl tracked me down, god knows how, and wanted to interview me about it, can you believe? I told her it was a bad business and to stay away but god knows if she listened. I’d tell anyone even thinking about looking in those killings to stay away, to run away. It was a bad business.”

Dillon wasn’t sure how to answer. The man’s skin seemed to have greyed as he spoke, as if haunted by his own work, and Dillon saw a tightness and a fear lurking about his eyes. It was only when Potato Chip yapped at him again that the shadow faded from his face and he smiled down at the little dog indulgently. 

It was one of the best parts of Dillon’s job, sending animals who had been abandoned and mistreated on to their forever homes with their new owners, and he felt very sure that Mike was going to be just what Chip needed. By the way Mike was smiling down at the excited Jack Russell Dillon decided that Chip was probably exactly what Mike needed as well. They would do well together. Mike’s warning about the book bothered him though. Everyone was always trying to censor what he saw and heard, afraid of setting off his anxiety, and while he appreciated the thoughtfulness and kindness of such gestures, he couldn’t deny that it rankled. He wanted to be able to make up his own mind about things, wanted to be able to live his life like everyone else, and decide for himself what he wanted to read and watch and hear about. He wanted to be able to watch the news without having a panic attack, but it didn’t seem to be happening.

As Mike left with Chip, the two walking out together like they’d been made for one another, Dillon wondered whether he should have mentioned that his partner was investigating the disappearance of one of his students, who had been researching the Longboat Killer. It hadn’t crossed his mind but now he couldn’t stop thinking of what David had told him, of the student who had gone missing after trying to dig in to the mystery. He hadn’t told Dillon much but now, seeing the fear in Mike’s eyes at the mere mention of it, he wondered who he should talk to, and what he should tell.

‘Hey Love. You’ll never guess who I’ve met.’

***

“Do you know how many headaches you cause me on a weekly basis, Sharma?”

David took in the angry shade of puce that had overtaken his boss’s face and swallowed the snarky comment he’d been about to make, or at least eighty per cent of it. He found it genuinely impossible to be entirely serious around Commissioner Marcus Campbell. The man just set his teeth on edge and he’d never been able to understand why the head of the Adelaide department hated him so much.

“Well, last week you were in Canberra,” he said slowly. “And the week before that I brought down that couple in Salisbury who were disappearing their babysitters. We managed to get their kids fostered together with a long-term family, by the way. I wrote a report. So... for the last two weeks at least...”

Even as the words were coming out of his mouth he could hear his mother in his head telling him he was an infuriating little so-and-so, and Dillon’s voice joining in to tell him that he was a genuine little shit and to keep it up. It was written plainly on Commissioner Campbell’s face as well but he figured he was going to get yelled at no matter what so why not have a bit of fun on the way down.

In a small way he was impressed that the man had even got wind of what he’d been up to, what with the Commission taking up so much of his time, but he did seem to have a sixth sense when it came to Detective David Sharma. He called David the Political Correctness Detective, PC for short, which was mostly annoyed David because it was so unimaginative, but he didn’t let it show. Everyone in the precinct knew that Campbell was keen to retire and David intended to outlast him, as long as the small-headed prick didn’t find an actual reason to get him put on ‘unpaid leave’ for the next thirty years.

“Well, you’re giving me one hell of a headache now,” the Commissioner bellowed at him, slamming his palm down on his desk. “What’s all this about you requesting registration checks and filing missing persons reports in the dead of night? What d’you think you’re up to, huh? What shady business are you mucking about in that you need to do it when the rest of us have gone home, Sharma? You think you can bypass my authority? You think you can run something through Missing Persons without me catching wind of it? I’ve got contacts in that department, in every department, d’you hear me? Nothing gets past me PC, nothing.”

David reminded himself that the yelling was for the benefit of the office at large, and not only for him, and breathed calmly through it. Campbell was asserting his dominance and trying to humiliate him by letting the entire department overhear his dressing down of the new detective, because even though he’d been there for a year he was still considered the new guy. And because as far as Campbell was concerned, the fact that David was only second generation Australian meant he would always be the new guy. Not that he said as much openly, but it was still there, in the room with them whenever David was so unfortunate as to be stuck in an enclosed space with his immediate superior. 

It wasn’t the only taboo topic of course, and staring at the man’s furious, piggish, face David couldn’t help but recall the bollocking he’d received when Dillon had kissed him on the courthouse steps on the day Martin White had been convicted and that particular nightmare had finally been over. David had thought he was about to be demoted or fired or just down right beaten to a pulp, but the media had so loved the idea of a detective falling in love with the man he was protecting that Campbell had known his hands were tied. The force couldn’t afford bad press, and Detective Inspector David Sharma was good press. A poster boy for a more progressive police force, he’d been told, but he was still on thin ice with Campbell and nothing would change that, no matter how well he did his job.

“I wasn’t trying to get anything past you, sir,” he lied solemnly. “I called through to the office last night to begin the vehicle check because I did not want to waste time if there was any evidence of foul play. I only wanted to make sure that we had all of the facts. You yourself have said more than once that time is of the essence when a citizen’s life is at stake. I was simply following your lead, sir. I filed the missing person’s report this morning because I was informed last night that the mother of the missing girl had been under the impression that a report had already been filed. Once again, I was just getting the facts straight so that everyone would be on the same page. I’ve prepared the paperwork, that’s all.”

He wanted to point out that he’d done nothing wrong, and that the officers at the Whitecove branch had been the ones to err, but didn’t bother. There was no point. It would be best to simply get the dressing down over with as quickly as possible. Then he could meet Dillon for lunch and bitch about the whole sorry experience to his heart’s content.

“And do you work in the Missing Persons Department, Sharma?” Campbell asked him with a sneer, ignoring everything David had said in his defense.

“No, sir.”

“No, sir,” Campbell growled, and David clenched his jaw to stop himself speaking out of turn. He just had to get through the next few minutes and then he was going to take his boyfriend out for curry and kiss him in front of the station’s front entrance with his badge showing and be himself without caring what any stuck up old white men thought, but for now he had to just make it through the next few minutes. “No, Sir,” Campbell repeated. “And what department do you work for, Sharma?”

“Homicide, sir,” David answered, making his voice clear but not overly loud. He knew that everyone in their office would be listening in but he didn’t care about making it easy for them. Campbell would see to that.

“Homicide, indeed,” the commissioner bellowed on cue and, caught off guard by his wandering thoughts, David flinched and watched the smile blossom on his superior’s face. “And do I need to remind you that Homicide and Missing Persons are different departments?”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir! And do I need to remind you that technically you only hold your position whilst our permanent senior detective is on maternity leave?”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir,” Campbell said slowly, triumphantly. “So what do you have to say for yourself, Sharma? What excuse do you have this time for wasting time and resources on something that was not your business?”

The commissioner stood as he spoke, walking casually until he came to stand in front of David, leaning forward to look down on him, towering over him like the bald-headed old giant he was, but David stood his ground gamely. It wouldn’t come to blows, Campbell had played the game too long and knew how to wear people down with words and intimidation. But David had no intention of letting him win. He had another card to play and he was curious to see what reaction he would get.

“The missing woman, she’s a student of mine. Her mother is a friend. I wasn’t opening an investigation, I was simply getting the ball rolling for her, that’s all. But I did feel it was worth my time, sir, because when she went missing the young woman was researching the Longboat Killings. As far as I’m aware those murders are still unsolved, sir. And they do fall under the jurisdiction of Homicide, sir, so I thought it was worth-”

“The Longboat Killings!” He looked up in time to see the pure fury on Commissioner Campbell’s face before the man screamed at him and he was sprayed with saliva. This was not the reaction he’d been expecting, but he’d really done it this time, apparently, and all he could do was keep his mouth and eyes closed and try not to react. “The Longboat Killings are ancient history, do you hear me, Sharma? We do not have the manpower or the money to be investigating long dead cold cases, d’you hear me? And if I ever, ever, hear you talking about them again, I will have your badge, by your brown arse I will, and you’ll wake up on a leaky boat, headed straight back to where you came from!” David looked up, unable to hide his shock and disgust, but Campbell didn’t give him a chance to speak. Instead he leaned in close, forcing David to look up at him and acknowledge the height difference between them. “You listen to me, Sharma,” he hissed menacingly. “If you go anywhere near that shit show of a case, if you so much as think about it... I will bury you. I don’t care that everyone here thinks you’re the golden child, I don’t care if you’re good for PR, I don’t care. I will find a way to get you thrown out. And that little boyfriend of yours? The little recluse? I’ll get him too. All that attention he hated so much during his trial, all the boo-hoo little nightmares and bad dreams he complained of to the shrink? I can bring that all back for him, don’t think I won’t. You don’t touch the Longboat Killings. There’s nothing there to find. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” David whispered, trying to hide the truth of how much the man’s threats had shaken him, how much he seemed to know. “I understand.”

“Good,” Campbell said, leaning in to his personal space until David felt his skin begin to crawl. “Dismissed.”

David did his best not to run from the room but couldn’t shake the feeling of shame when he emerged to see every eye in the office focused on him. He wiped his face with his hand, grabbed his jacket from his desk and fished out his mobile as he headed toward the lifts. He’d worked through lunch and knew no one would care that he was taking a late break. Golden child indeed, he thought with a snort as he walked as fast as he could across the floor. Most people he worked with resented him for getting a job they thought should have been kept in-house. They’d be happy to be shot of him. As he waited for the lift, fighting to keep himself still and at least outwardly calm, he turned his attention to his phone and opened up the messages that were waiting for him. 

‘Hey Love, I’m on my way now,’ the text from Dillon read, and David let the pleasant flutter of his heart calm him properly as he read the casual endearment. ‘ETA five mins I reckon. What do you fancy? Curry or sushi?’

‘Curry,’ David typed hurriedly as he stepped in to a lift and watched the doors close on the Homicide Department. ‘I need comfort curry.’

‘Poor Love,’ came the reply as he stepped out on the ground floor and David walked quickly to the exit, almost desperate to hold Dillon close and remember that there were still good, honest, kind people in the world. ‘I’m out the front now.’

David quickened his pace even more until he just about flew out of the doors and in to his boyfriend’s arms, pulling him in to a long kiss and holding him tight enough to feel him tremble. Dillon was caught by surprise but after a moment he relaxed in to the kiss and brought the fingers of his free hand up to tangle in David’s curls, holding on tight as they drew the kiss out longer. When David finally pulled back, only because he worried that if they kept on kissing he’d get carried away, he felt Dillon lean in against him and wrapped the man tightly in his arms. The physical side of their relationship had been tentative of late, for months in fact, and it felt so good to hold Dillon tight and feel his warmth, and when eventually the hug ended David took his time gazing at Dillon’s flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips, and at the smile that spread slowly across them, before reaching his wide dark eyes.

“What’s... what’s happened, Love?” Dillon asked gently, and suddenly David realised that his behaviour had been a lot more forward than usual, especially in public, and that he hadn’t given Dillon any warning for his actions.

“Oh god, Dill, I’m sorry,” he said quietly, though when he tried to step back Dillon grabbed at his jacket, keeping him close.

“No, no, I...” Dillon swallowed and tried again, his smile resurfacing after a moment’s pause. “I liked it. A, a, a lot. It was just, um, unexpected is all. You know me, I’m, I’m, I’m always up for kisses. But are you alright? Did your boss really chew you out?”

David looked down and took Dillon’s hand in his, running his thumb over the delicate fingers and knuckles. He was sorely tempted to get down on one knee and propose there in the street but knew it wouldn’t be fair. He needed to make sure that Dillon was comfortable, ready and able in mind and body, before he did something like that.

“It’s nothing really,” he said with a grimace, lifting Dillon’s hand up to press a kiss to his ring finger. “It’s just this Longboat Killer nonsense. It’s got my boss spooked and he doesn’t want me touching it. He’s right. I should keep my big nose out of things.”

“Good luck,” Dillon grinned, cocking his hip as he leaned on his cane with a grin. “You’re a detective, Love. Sticking your, your, your gorgeous nose in is part of the job. I wonder what, what it is about it though, that’s got everyone so scared still, after twenty years.”

David grunted his agreement as they set off down the road, walking at the pace Dillon’s cane set for them, but looked up sharply as the words sank in. He deliberately didn’t talk about his work with Dillon unless he was absolutely sure it wouldn’t set off Dillon’s anxiety. He talked about the people he worked with and his priggish boss and the computer system so slow it seemed to move backwards, but he rarely mentioned specifics when it came to cases, and not just because it was bad form to discuss ongoing investigations with anyone. Dillon had been through so much and David had been warned by his doctors and therapists that it was still early days, and that the horrors of the past were still very near the surface. He couldn’t afford to let anything happen that would set Dillon’s recovery back again, and he thought he had been careful, though apparently not careful enough.

“How do you know anything about the Longboat Killer?”

“Oh, um,” Dillon’s voice wobbled but he recovered himself quickly and gave David one of his stubborn looks, chin jutted out and eyes narrowed, and lips a thin line that said he wasn’t about to back down about whatever it was he intended to argue about. “Well, you, um, mentioned that your student was, um, doing a project on it and, um... I met Mike Magarey today. Well, actually I met him, um, months ago, but I only realised today. He, he, he wrote that book you left out on the coffee table, about the Longboat murders. Seems like, like that book ruined his whole career, and it’s still got him scared twenty years on. He’s the cleaner at the centre now, that’s how I know him. It’s nothing suspicious,” he said more sharply when he saw David’s scowl. “It was just a, a, a weird coincidence is all.” 

David looked up sharply, his brain as ever catching on the small details, whether they seemed relevant or not. “You mean Madeline Magarey, right?”

“No,” Dillon shook his head, looking at David like he wanted to convey some meaning without having to say it aloud. “It’s Mike now. His name’s Mike. He’s really nice.”

David thought he understood. He’d met one or two trans people over the years and deciding whether it was acceptable to disclose their past could be a difficult call to make. Dillon didn’t want to share information that wasn’t his to give but still felt it was important that David understood. David was sometimes caught off guard by Dillon’s capacity for sympathy. He didn’t necessarily trust people but that was a learned trait, a defense, and at his core Dillon was incredibly kind hearted and tried to treat everyone with gentleness and understanding, whether they deserved it or not. David shook his head. He could still remember too vividly how Dillon had been thrown to the ground by a man he’d been on a date with because he’d given the man the benefit of the doubt. He still had nightmares of Dillon being kidnapped by a man he hadn’t trusted but hadn’t wanted to tell David about, in case he caused trouble. Mike Magarey might seem like a decent bloke just trying to get by in the world but David couldn’t risk it. The last thing he needed was for his boyfriend to become embroiled in another murder investigation, especially with Campbell making threats against them both.

“Dillon, please don’t get involved with any of this Longboat Killer stuff?” he asked, holding Dillon’s elbow to stop him walking on ahead in to the restaurant. “I know it seems stupid but I wouldn’t cope if anything happened to you because you got it in to your head to play detective.”

“I’m not a kid, Love.” 

David had expected Dillon to tug his arm free or remind him, again, that he was an adult and free to do whatever he wanted, but the gentle kiss that was pressed to the corner of his mouth was infinitely more pleasant.

“I know,” he said breathily, holding Dillon close, “I just worry, is all.”

“Well that’s my job so, so, so back off alright?” Dillon whispered back cheekily before giving him another quick kiss and David let the laughter and relief huff out quietly before he straightened up and pulled the door to the restaurant open. Dillon smiled too, though he still looked concerned, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in a way that David found thoroughly distracting. “I, I still think you should talk to Mike though,” he said earnestly. “He, um, met up with your student before she, she, um, disappeared. He seemed worried. You should... you should talk to him.”

“I will,” David promised, smiling again to reassure Dillon that he was being taken seriously. “I promise. But lunch first. I’m half starved.”

“Hmm,” Dillon hummed as he limped past him, eyebrow raised and eyes shining cheekily as he glanced down and then slowly back up. “I don’t think so. I think you look just about prefect.”

David felt his heart squeeze excitedly in his chest and followed Dillon in quickly, not wanting to be separated from him for a moment. He’d been waiting for some sign that Dillon was ready to move forward and renewed flirting was a good sign. Maybe it was for the best that he’d been told to leave the old Longboat Killings alone, maybe it was time to let work take a backseat and focus on something more important. Tonight they were having dinner with Helen Goodfellow but perhaps the night after, David decided, a romantic dinner for two should be arranged.


	4. Chapter 4

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a bisexual man before,” Helen announced tipsily, resting her chin in her hands as she looked at him across the table, and Dillon giggled as he took another sip of wine. He was enjoying the woman’s company a lot more than he’d thought he would and was grateful that David had insisted he come along, even if the man now looked thoroughly fed up with the both of them. “Didn’t think they existed.”

“I bet you have,” he told her. “We most, most, most, um, definitely exist. I saw myself in the mirror this morning and all. David can, can, can vouch for my existence.”

David just raised an eyebrow but Dillon didn’t let it dampen his spirits, not when David followed up the action by spooning another mouthful of rhubarb crumble in to his mouth. It was his current favourite and Dillon had made it especially.

“I don’t know,” Helen shook her head, looking in to the dregs of her own wine. “I mean, I’ve met plenty of bi women. We never seem to be in short supply, but never a man.”

Dillon nearly choked on his wine but recovered himself quickly and blinked at her as he tried to respond with something vaguely intelligible instead of just a ridiculous grin. He always got excited meeting other bi people, like he was meeting an estranged cousin for the first time, and only resisted the urge to try and hug the woman because there was a table between them.

“So, so, so you’re bi yourself then?” he asked excitedly. Helen however, gave him a sheepish smile in return.

“Well,” she shrugged. “I’ve always thought of myself as such, in the privacy of my own head. But I’ve never come out about it or anything.”

“Well then, um, let me be the first to, to, to welcome you to the fold,” Dillon grinned, resting his own elbow on the table and his chin in his hand. “Your, your, your membership package and poncho will be in the mail on Monday.”

David chuckled at that and Dillon felt his grin widen at being able to break him free from his grumpiness. He’d been quiet all evening, leaving Dillon to make conversation with someone he’d only just met, in a strange home, but Dillon knew he had his reasons for being taciturn. He was worried about too many different things and his ever-moving brain was having a hard time keeping up with all the tangents. 

“Poncho?” Helen giggled incredulously. “Is that a bisexual thing then?”

“Oh yeah,” Dillon nodded sagely, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the wine blush in his cheeks and large grin. “It’s compulsory. Every bi person must own at least one. It’s a union thing.”

Helen cackled and leant forward to take his hand in hers, laughing until there were tears in her eyes and Dillon felt proud that he’d been able to make her laugh too, until she looked up at him and the tears began to actually fall.

“My Candice would’ve loved you.”

Dillon struggled to get out of his chair, desperate to hold her so she wouldn’t have to cry alone, but David beat him to it and wrapped his arms around the woman’s thin frame, his own face grave. Dillon sat back and let David get on with it as he held Helen’s hand, knowing that it was something his boyfriend was exceptionally good at; he’d comforted Dillon enough times and knew how to put people at their ease when they were going through a difficult situation. And Helen was definitely going through a difficult situation. 

The way both she and David spoke of her daughter in the past tense made Dillon feel strangely uncomfortable, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It had been the same when his last boyfriend had died as a result of a vicious hit-and-run and Dillon had been unable to attend the funeral due to his own injuries. He hadn’t been able to process the fact that Sam was dead, not without seeing the body, without having the chance to witness the burial. He couldn’t comprehend how Helen could know that her daughter was dead, or how she could swing between laughter and grief, but David seemed to get it, and Dillon was glad that someone did, because Helen was too nice not to have at least one person on her side.

David had insisted, several times and a bit too emphatically, that he wasn’t taking on the case, that there was no case at all, but had also been absolutely adamant that Dillon not mention that to Helen, and that he not mention the Longboat Killer to anyone at all. It was because of his boss, Dillon knew. The man was bully but usually David shrugged it off. Whatever he’d said to him that afternoon must have shaken David badly and he’d swung between troubled silence and sweet, careful flirting in the hours since. Dillon’d enjoyed the flirting, it had been reassuring, but the other behaviour worried him.

The David that Dillon knew and loved didn’t let anything stop him from getting to the bottom of any problem, from gathering every single fact available, but something about cold cases apparently made him cautious, and something about the Longboat Killer was making him act downright out of character. Dillon hated seeing the man he loved out of sorts, and worse, knew that it made his own anxiety act up. As did the realisation that David and Helen had been speaking and he had no idea what had been said.

“It’s alright,” Helen was saying quietly as David pressed a clean tissue in to her hand. “It will be, in any case. At least they’ve found her car, now.”

Usually Dillon thought David’s confused face was irresistibly cute, but the fear that sat behind it as he looked down at Helen, his mouth open and dark eyes darting from her eyes to her shoulder to the floor and back again, made him bite at his lip in concern. He didn’t like seeing David out of his comfort zone, not when it was something like this. He would happily watch the man swear and jump and mess up in the kitchen, or yelp when Trouble jumped on his bare feet first thing in the morning, but it was very different from seeing him nervous like this. David didn’t like not knowing the facts.

“They... they what, sorry?”

“They called me earlier today,” Helen said with a watery smile, her hands still shaking from the fierceness of her tears. She didn’t seem to see what Dillon could see, and David didn’t interrupt her. “You must have friends in all the right places, David. They informed me that Candice’s car had been found in airport parking and they would be looking in to any phone calls and credit card transactions that might give them an indication of her movements the night I last saw her. I told them she didn’t have a credit card, of course. And that she didn’t have the money for an aeroplane ticket. They said they’d get back to me once they knew more. I should have thanked you earlier. I really didn’t think anything would come of it. Thank you so much, David.”

Dillon watched as David smiled and told her that she didn’t need to thank him, and that he was glad she was finally getting answers, but Dillon could see the unease beneath the usual charm. Something was wrong, so very wrong, and Dillon didn’t like it. He could already feel his heart beginning to rattle around in his chest, pushing against his ribs until they began to ache with the strain of it, but he tried not to let it show. It wasn’t a late night but Helen tired quickly and so they made their goodbyes, but even in the car David was silent and tight lipped and Dillon couldn’t think of what to say to break the ice forming between them. He wasn’t even really sure what he’d done wrong, or what was bothering David so badly. 

Earlier in the day David had kissed him with a passion that had made his entire body tingle and turned even his good leg to jelly, and Dillon had hoped so very desperately that it meant their physical relationship was getting back on track, but now they seemed back at square one and Dillon didn’t know what to make of it all. He decided to just wait it out. He could be a moody bastard when he wanted to be and David tended to leave him to it until he was ready to actually say what was wrong, so Dillon decided to give that a go. He turned his attention to the window instead and the construction work happening on either side of them. The traffic was moving at a snail’s pace and the view was far from captivating, just holes dug and ready for the enormous concrete support pillars of the new overpass, until something out in the darkness made him sit up with a jolt.

“What is it?” David snapped, suddenly alert and glancing back and forth between Dillon and the road, his hair falling down over his eyes as he tried to look everywhere at one. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Dillon answered lightly, giving him a reassuring smile. “I was just, just, just looking out the window. I am allowed to do that, you know.”

David frowned. “Is this because I told you to steer clear of Magarey?”

“No,” Dillon pursed his lips and crossed his arms trying to keep his calm. That wasn’t it at all but being reminded of David’s mounting fear of the Longboat case just made Dillon more stubbornly determined to voice what he’d seen. “It’s just those, those, those piles of earth. They look just like the ones from Mike’s book.”

David just sighed and refused to look out in to the dark, focusing solely on the road ahead, even though they were barely moving, until Dillon saw the curiosity get the best of him. He kept his face carefully neutral as David looked past him out the window, but couldn’t help taking a long, appreciative look at his boyfriend’s handsome face.

“There was only one last night,” David mumbled. “Now there are two. But they’re building a massive bridge, of course they’re going to dig holes. We both need to let this go, Love, seriously. I don’t want to think about it tonight. I just want to go home, and go to bed and... spend time with you.”

Dillon knew he was grinning like an idiot at hearing such a confession but couldn’t stop it any more than he could stop the thrill running through his body or the heat beginning to pool in his belly. 

“That, that, that sounds good to me,” he said, low and soft. “Would you like to, um... would you like to, to elaborate on those plans, at all?”

The look David gave him in reply was practically predatory and within a minute Dillon was squirming in his seat, holding on tight to his cane, though not for any reason of balance. He needed his hands on something before he lunged across the car to snog the man and caused a major accident. By the time they finally reached the house, all thoughts of mounds and killers had flown completely from his mind. 

***

“You know I love you, right?” David whispered, pressing his lips to the corner of Dillon’s jaw, just below his ear. “More than anything else in this world.”

Dillon answered by arching his neck and whimpering, and David took the hint and continued kissing his way down his boyfriend’s perfect, pale throat. They were in bed, finally, and David had poured them each a glass of wine and done his best to set the mood by turning off the main light in favour of the bedside lamp and taking his time removing Dillon’s clothes, relearning the body he hadn’t dared to touch in too long, running his hands over the narrow waist, and sharp hip bones, kissing his way from nipple to belly button as he worked the buttons of Dillon’s shirt. David felt far more intoxicated than could be explained by the single glass of wine in his system and it was all down to Dillon and the silken warmth of his skin, and the lust-filled sighs that were escaping his bitten lips.

They should have done this before now, he scolded himself as he moved his hands down his lover’s chest, loving the stuttered gasps he received in return, and the way his hips undulated proved just how much Dillon appreciated and needed the attention being paid. David silently scolded himself as he returned his tongue to flick at one of Dillon’s hard, dusky pink nipples. They had both missed this. Dillon was so naturally affectionate and thrived on touch but very rarely asked for what he needed and David shouldn’t have let it go on so long, regardless of how slowly Dillon had healed from his injuries and surgeries. Even when sex had been completely off limits he still should have taken more time to hold Dillon close and give him physical affection, but he didn’t want to waste time berating himself now, not when Dillon was on the bed beneath him, his chest heaving and flushed with arousal, looking like some sort of god that David should never have had a chance with, yet had somehow won, despite all odds. 

He flicked the last button through it’s hole and pushed the shirt aside, running his hands over the length of Dillon’s torso until his fingers brushed against the trail of hair below his belly button and came to rest against his belt buckle. He looked up, needing some sort of affirmation from the man beneath him, some proof that what he was doing was welcome and that he could continue, but the sight of Dillon, cheeks flushed against the pillow, stole his breath away. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth, then jumped at the sound of the phone ringing out in the lounge room. They both groaned in frustration and David willed whoever it was to just give up and leave him to make love to his boyfriend in peace. He knew he really aught to answer it, but also knew that if he dared to leave the bed now he’d return to find that Dillon had changed in to his track suit and covered himself in every blanket they owned. He couldn’t afford to waste this chance, and really he didn’t want to talk to anyone else, didn’t want to even think about the rest of the world, not when he was kneeling above the man he loved so intensely that it made his heart physically hurt. 

“You should answer the phone,” Dillon told him breathlessly. “It could be... important.”

David shook his head and kissed up the length of Dillon’s neck instead, mumbling that he couldn’t imagine anything more important than what he was doing right then and felt an excited jolt in his groin when Dillon chuckled softly in answer. They let the phone ring out; if it was work David figured they’d call his mobile, everything else could wait. Right now he really did have a far more important job to do, and it involved worshipping his boyfriend’s body and kissing every inch of it. His hands were still resting on Dillon’s belt but he hesitated in removing it, wanting to admire the view just a little longer.

Dillon’s body was lean and lightly muscled, perfectly proportioned, especially compared to David’s own body, which was compact and more densely muscled but, to his mind, nowhere near as beautiful. He watched the way Dillon’s hips undulated and felt his erection harden at the sight, and at the flutter of Dillon’s long eyelashes against his high, flushed, cheekbones. He wanted to grab the belt and rip it free, wanted to pull at the jeans roughly and expose Dillon’s lithe legs and glorious cock, which made David’s mouth water just to think of, but stopped himself before he could lose control and do something regrettable. Dillon’s legs were a sore point, in more ways than one, and David knew he’d need to take things very carefully. He didn’t want to mess this up.

He leaned back and removed his own shirt, slowly, aware that Dillon was watching him through his, dark eyelashes, and slid himself back up to once again kiss along Dillon’s jaw until he reached his mouth, pressing their lips together firmly and lowering his body just enough to feel Dillon’s smooth, hot chest against his. He felt so close to being overwhelmed by the sensation, by the man’s very presence, and when Dillon lunged and trapped David’s bottom lip between his teeth, he felt his head spin and moaned embarrassingly. He felt claimed, taken and marked and singled out as Dillon’s own, and it was glorious.

Dillon’s hand in his hair, holding tight to the curls at his nape, only added to the feeling, and when Dillon’s hips bucked up in to him the moan turned in to a desperate whine.

“Fuck,” he whimpered when Dillon released his lip, but the reprieve didn’t last long and Dillon pulled him down for a kiss that was full of passion and hunger. 

He brought his hands back to Dillon’s belt, unbuckling it hurriedly, grinning giddily, head spinning at what they were doing, what was finally starting between them. He was so caught up in his joy that it took him a moment to realise that Dillon’s body had gone still beneath him but he pulled back abruptly when the gasping started, recognising the opening notes of one of Dillon’s panic attacks, and when he looked he saw that sure enough, the blush of arousal had been replaced by a red tacky flush that was swiftly spreading down his lover’s neck and chest and that his eyes were unfocused and fearful, trapped in some nightmare or memory. 

“Dillon? Dillon it’s ok, mate. Dillon, do you hear me? You’re safe, Love. You’re safe.”

David tried to keep his voice low and reassuring, even as the panic began to tighten his own throat. Dillon wasn’t ready, so obviously hadn’t been ready for this sort of intimacy, and he hated himself for getting so carried away. He looked down at his hand, where it rested against Dillon’s scarred hip, and pulled it away as if burned. The scars didn’t bother him, he’d been by Dillon’s side through his recovery, but worried that his hand’s placement was what had triggered the attack. Dillon’s whimper at the movement convinced him that moving his hand had been the right thing to do, but he didn’t know what to do next. He tried bringing his hand to Dillon’s cheek but the gasping only got worse and he watched as the man below him began to shake violently, and then to cry, hiding his face behind his hands and unable to stand David’s touch.

Looking at him, David began to wonder whether Dillon had been forgetting to eat. There had never been much in the way of extra fat on him and while Dillon loved to cook for others he had gotten in to a habit of skipping lunch if David didn’t remind him or organise to eat lunch with him. Just then he was shaking hard enough to make David worry he’d rattle his bones out of their joints, or do himself an injury, and he could see Dillon’s ribs clearly, a sight which reminded him too clearly of how his boyfriend had looked when lying in his hospital bed, sedated and bruised and being fed through a tube.

It was enough to make his own panic spike and he sat back, trying to ignore the goosebumps prickling his skin and the tightness of his throat. He usually tried to be so calm and collected during Dillon’s panic attacks but he’d been caught off guard, he’d thought things were going well and couldn’t seem to remember what he was supposed to do. It was only when Dillon looked up at him, pleadingly, that he pulled himself together, lay down by Dillon’s side, and began to hum. It was a song his parents had taught him and for the first time in months David wished he could sit in his parents’ comfortable little terrace house and let them organise his life for him. He’d never appreciated it when he’d lived there, or when he’d lived only ten minutes away. He’d not properly appreciated his sisters’ fussing either, or how easy it was to sit down with them and tell them his problems. A few years ago he’d considered himself so clever, so indestructible. Now he constantly felt like he was one step behind.

He tucked himself tight to Dillon’s side and then gently, terrified that he might make things worse, he began to stroke his palm over Dillon’s chest, over his heart. He did his best to ensure the motion wasn’t sexual, his intent was to ground Dillon not stress him out more, but he didn’t relax until he felt the shaking stop and saw Dillon’s breathing begin to calm. He pressed a kiss to his boyfriend’s shoulder as he snuggled closer and was rewarded with a short lived ghost of a smile which was replaced with a look of renewed panic when the phone began to ring again.

David groaned and pressed his face in to a pillow but the ringing didn’t stop and eventually Dillon prodded him gently. “You should... probably... answer that.”

“Don’t want to,” David replied stubbornly, wrapping his arm around Dillon’s waist carefully, his stomach fluttering happily when Dillon didn’t pull away or stiffen at his touch.

“It’s probably important,” Dillon pointed out, his body relaxing further and his breathing returning to a more settled rhythm. “Who, who else would be calling us at, at, at this hour? No one I know.”

“Work only ever call my mobile,” David argued on, nuzzling against Dillon and kissing his shoulder again, keeping the touch as innocent and non-threatening as he could. “No one there calls the landline. It’s probably a wrong number.”

“Please answer the phone?” Dillon asked in a small voice and David nodded, he couldn’t deny a request laden so heavily with melancholy even if he hated the thought of leaving Dillon’s side even to walk down the hallway.

The ringing stopped just as he reached it and David glared at where the cable for the answer machine had come lose. He only had himself to blame, he knew. He’d wanted to pace the last time he’d had to use the thing and had unplugged the answer machine in an attempt to make it easier to move about their small lounge room whilst carrying the phone. Dillon’s phone was too old in his opinion. They needed something without a cord, something with a built in answer service, something made that century, but Dillon didn’t agree. The phone had been supplied by the landlord and Dillon argued that there was no point in buying something that was being provided for free. David knew it was sensible but it still bugged him and he decided that it was an argument that was possibly worth revisiting, though maybe in the morning. Right now he didn’t want an argument, he just wanted to go back to kissing Dillon. He plugged the answer machine back in hurriedly, set the phone to go straight to message after a single ring, and then hurried back to bed. 

He was too late of course. Dillon had already wrapped himself in a thick jumper and was huddled under the blankets like it was the dead of winter. David sighed quietly to himself and made his way to his side of the bed. Next time, he promised himself. Next time he’d do better and find a way to give Dillon the affection they both needed without pushing things too far.

“G’night, Dill,” he said quietly in the dark as he lifted the blankets and settled down to sleep. “I love you.”

The very quiet response of, “Love you too,” made his heart ache as he closed his eyes but he smiled all the same. He’d make it up to Dillon tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow would be a better day.

***

In the small, third floor office the fire raged, licking up the curtains and bookshelves, staining the ceiling black and slowly smothering the screams from within. Professor Eleanor Harris made another attempt to open the door but she didn’t have the strength and soon the pounding turned to scratching and eventually that too stopped and the fire got on with its job, devouring the evidence that had been left far too long. 

Really, they should have done this years ago, but there had seemed no need, not when it had been much more enjoyable to sit back and watch her frustration and fear mount with each discovered mound. Torturing her had been a reason for living. And once the killings had stopped no one had felt any need to carry on listening to some boring old tweed coated woman and her theories on death and morality. Once she had been the centre of their world and they had imagined in graphic detail the day they finally revealed themselves and ended her, but in reality it had been frustratingly underwhelming. She hadn’t recognised him. Not his face. He was nothing to her. And so it had been time for her to go. If only the old bat hadn’t talked to the Goodfellow girl, hadn’t started voicing the same old fears and trying to make waves again. But it would be fine. There was a boat waiting for her.

They carefully opened the door and aimed the fire extinguisher through the narrow space until enough of the fire had been extinguished to allow their entry. The old professor was curled in a ball, her body attempting to hide from the flames, even in death, and the killer smiled. It must have been painful, which was a nice thought, and they lifted her body easily in to the bin before adding the photographs from her desk and a few books and then closing the lid. Her books had been what she’d truly treasured in life, and her artifacts. Most were burnt now, beyond recognition, but there were a few pieces that were easy enough to remove from the walls and add to the bin. Professor Eleanor Harris had dedicated her life to ancient burial practices, the least they could do now was to ensure she was buried in a fitting manner; it would no doubt infuriate her beyond the grave. 

Walking out of the office, they closed the door softly and pushed the trolley with its bin and cleaning supplies toward the lifts, gazing out of the wide windows and whistling as they went. It was still an hour before dawn and the sky was a dark grainy grey. There was frost in the air and down by the river at the bottom of the hill the birds were already calling to one another. It was shaping up to be another beautiful day. Such a shame they would be too busy to really appreciate it.


	5. Chapter 5

“So, why exactly am I here?” David asked, staring at the burnt out office. “Not that I mind, just, I’ll need a really good excuse for when Campbell decides to chew me out over being away from my desk and poking my nose in to ‘non-homicide’ business.”

Smith let out an understanding grunt in response but didn’t immediately look up from his notes. He’d called David early and had been unbearably loud and chipper about it, but David had gotten over most of his annoyance once Smith mentioned that he needed assistance at a crime scene at the university. Even so it had been difficult to get out of bed when Dillon was lying there, smiling at him sleepily, his long hair a tangled halo around his head and a sheepish, hopeful look in his deep brown eyes. In the end he’d decided to forego breakfast in favour of an extra fifteen minutes in bed and Dillon had made it worth his while, kissing him softly and holding him close, clutching at David’s hair and clothes with a neediness that was arousing but also worrying. 

David’d even tried to coax the man in to the shower with him, though he’d known it wasn’t likely to happen, and Dillon had stubbornly stayed put in bed, all jutting chin and wary eyes, and the cat had joined him protectively so that David had an amused audience of two watching him as he rushed around, searching for a clean shirt and matching socks. Dillon was working the evening shift at the animal shelter but had laughingly agreed to pack something nice to wear afterwards. David was still determined to take him out somewhere fancy for dinner and knew that Dillon would end up in a panic attack in his scrubs if he wasn’t given fair warning that they were going somewhere new. David had plans to make a reservation somewhere but it was still too early in the morning for that and, he reminded himself sternly, he was supposed to be concentrating on the scene Smith had called him out to. 

“Well, for a start this office is just down the corridor from your own, and I thought it might be useful to have some insider knowledge on our side,” Smith told him reasonably, but gave another grunt in response to David’s frown. “Don’t worry. I know how Campbell likes to keep you chained to your desk unless a dead body is thrown directly at you with a note saying ‘I was definitely murdered’ tacked to it. But, as it happens, he’s out of the state today. He was called back to Canberra to give more evidence - left first thing - which at least gives you a bit of breathing space. And I have other reasons for wanting you here, aside from your knowledge of the campus.”

“And those reasons are?” 

“Well it’s certainly not your charming personality, is it, Sharma?” Smith smirked but David just rolled his eyes and waited. He’d get the man back soon enough. He’d find a reason to call him late in the evening or the middle of the night and they both knew it. David was aware that his mood was fast turning foul. He’d already heard too many jokes from the officers on sight about how grumpy he was when woken so early, and while he knew it was only good natured ribbing, he hadn’t had any coffee and had found that his good mood had evaporated as soon as he’d left Dillon’s company. Campbell really was going to be furious when he got back and realised that David had been doing anything other than sitting at his desk feeling bored out of his brain and he needed to be prepared. He knew that it was probably more sensible to simply go back to the office before he got officially involved, but he couldn’t help himself. Smith had asked him to come and even if it meant getting an utter dressing down from his boss it was still worth it to be spending a few hours exercising his brain and his legs.

“Reasons?” he repeated, trying to keep as much of the bite out of his voice and failing.

“Alright, alright. The truth is, this could well be a matter for homicide. There’s no record of Professor Harris leaving the uni last night and if you look at this spot just here,” Smith walked them over to a clear space on the floor surrounded by dry, white powder. “And these marks here,” he gestured to several shallow scratch marks on the door, “it looks very much like the poor professor could well have been inside the office when the fire started.”

David frowned, narrowing his eyes at the door. “So, where is she now?” he asked, mostly to himself. His brain was already beginning to fire thoughts in all directions, offering him possible scenarios based on what facts he knew, ordering them in to lists in his head and demanding more information. “You don’t leave those sorts of marks in a door if you can get out any other way. And if she didn’t get out in time... dead bodies don’t just get up and brush themselves off once the fire’s out.”

He knelt down by the strange outline on the floor, opposite a woman from the forensics team who was taking a sample.

“Some of the fire was put out with an extinguisher,” she told him softly, her long black plait swinging as she looked up, “but not all of it. I’m Adita by the way. Adita Sarin. Hi. I’ve heard about you but we’ve not met.”

“Hi, Adita,” David replied, trying his best not to sound too gruff. “So this powder outline is from an extinguisher? And the outline it’s left is vaguely human save for the scuff marks on this side...”

She nodded in response but didn’t speak. No one did, and David could feel the eyes of everyone in the room focusing on him as he thought. Eleanor Harris had been a bit eccentric. She was getting on in years but there was never any talk of her retiring and when David had met her she’d been sharp minded, if a little wary of him. He’d gotten the distinct feeling that she fell in to the category of folk who didn’t trust the police an inch, but considering that was a fairly substantial percentage of the population David hadn’t felt a need to pry. Now he wished he had.

He hadn’t known her well. They hadn’t been in the same department even if their offices were on the same floor, but as far as David could recall she’d been a stalwart of the school, teaching subjects in archaeology, ancient history, anthropology, and sociology. Eleanor had had her fingers in many departmental pies. But what had been her speciality? It was sitting at the edge of his memory and he hated that he couldn’t remember it. He looked around the room at the wall of charred books and blackened photographs until one caught his attention, the details barely visible under the smoke stain on the glass. He stood quickly but couldn’t step forward for the sudden spinning in his head.

“Eleanor was an expert in ancient burial rituals,” he mumbled, not quite believing it, even as he said it. “She told me when we met that she’d probably seen more dead bodies than me. I pointed out that hers tended to be less gory than mine...” He exhaled roughly, something barely a laugh and with little humour in it. “That’s her in that photo there. At a burial mound. A viking burial mound. There’s a... boat.” 

Smith didn’t seem surprised, but then he had the sort of face that declared to the world that nothing could shock him, and he nodded slowly before grabbing David’s arm and pulling him in to the corner of the room, closer to the photograph. His expression was grave and he kept his voice low as he spoke.

“That’s one of the other reason I wanted you here. The main reason. I worried it’d get buried otherwise and... are you aware that Professor Harris was consulted during the Longboat Murders?” David shook his head. “Didn’t think so. It was a long while ago. Happened my first year on the force in fact. All I remember about it is how much of a shambles it all was, how unprepared we all were for that sort of thing. It was six months of grief and fear and unanswered questions. Lots of the up-and-ups got forced in to retirement because of it, because it was so badly handled. Gross incompetence all ‘round. It was what got Campbell promoted to Senior Investigator, which is probably why he got so uptight about you asking questions. No one wants to be reminded of that shit show.”

“Did they really have no idea who was behind it all?” David asked carefully. They were friends but that didn’t mean Smith wouldn’t keep secrets from him. Cops were like that sometimes so he watched the man’s face as he answered, trying to catch any sign of a tell.

“Not that I was privy to,” Smith answered shortly. “I was bottom rung of the hierarchy and nobody wanted to talk about it. Lots of suspects were hauled in, I’ll not deny it, but nothing we threw at them ever stuck, none of them could be tied to all of the evidence. Everyone was just relieved when the bodies stopped turning up. It was a year before random mounds of earth about the place didn’t spark hysteria and a dozen phone calls. There was a journalist at the time who was questioned, but they weren’t able to pin anything on her either. I don’t know what became of her. It was a shocker of a case. And now one of the only people you could have asked about it has had her office torched and the student researching it is missing. Doesn’t bode well, does it?”

David looked around the room, at the way the damage seemed worse in certain areas, how the chair was so badly damaged, while the desk was still stable, how the bookcase was beyond saving but the fire hadn’t spread beyond the room. He knew he would be able to build a scenario in which Professor Harris had been the primary starting point for the blaze, followed by a smaller, secondary fire started to destroy her research. She would have been seated by the window, he figured, which explained the curtains, but whoever had taken her body had put out most of the fire in order to do so, which was why it hadn’t spread to the rest of the building. But why steal the body? Unless the killer meant to do something more to it, he supposed, like burying it in a boat surrounded by significant worldly possessions. 

“It’s happening again,” David whispered as the horror of it sunk in. “The killer’s resurfacing. It’s what happens, nine times out of ten. Something’s triggered it and he’s tying up loose ends maybe, and killing again. It’s a compulsion for some. Oh, I am going to get in so much trouble,” he groaned. “Campbell’s going to kill me when this gets out. It’s been nice knowing you, Smith. Avenge my death when I’m gone.”

“Leave the dramatics at home, Sharma,” was all he got in reply but David couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to go seriously south, especially when Smith, who was usually red cheeked and jolly, was looking pale, close-lipped and chary. They were on the edge of something, and it wasn’t going to be pleasant. He grabbed a pair of gloves and set to work, examining the crime scene as closely as he could. If Campbell was going to make his life hell, he figured, he may as well learn what he could while he could. 

There were hooks on the wall that should have been covered by masks and paintings and artifacts and the desk was emptier than the last time David had been there, all signs that the killer had taken mementos to bury along with their victim, but when he opened a drawer of the charred desk he found the woman’s diary still mostly intact. He flicked through the pages, wondering if there would be anything worth noting when he saw several entries that sent a chill down his spine. Candice Goodfellow, Michael Magarey, the Whitecove library, and David Sharma. Eleanor Harris had met up with Candice Goodfellow before her disappearance, and had pencilled in times to call Magarey, the author of the definitive book on the case, and the librarian who may well have been the last person to see Candice alive. And him. He couldn’t ignore the connections now, there were too many for it to be shrugged off as coincidence.

As he looked up from the page his mobile rang and he thrust the diary at Smith as he fumbled the phone, double taking when he saw that the caller ID said Dillon. David was accustomed to text messages from his boyfriend, they texted one another daily, but Dillon didn’t usually call if he could help it. Not unless it was important.

“Hey, Dill, what’s up?” he asked, feeling the anxiety growing in his chest, squeezing his heart. For a moment there was silence down the line and David wondered if Dillon had called by mistake, but when he pressed the phone hard against his ear he could hear the muffled sounds of Dillon struggling and failing to control his breathing. Two panic attacks in under twelve hours was not a good sign. “Dillon?” he asked more seriously, trying to keep his voice low and steady. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a, a, um, a voicemail,” Dillon stammered and David willed him to keep calm, hating that he couldn’t be there to help. “On the, on the landline. It’s, it’s, it’s from a woman and she, um, she sounds really panicked. She sounded... fuck, David... she sounded so, so scared. Said she needed to, to, to talk to you and then she, um, she...”

David glanced around and was relieved that everyone in the room seemed to be carefully ignoring him as he leant against the wall and quietly began the process of helping Dillon through his panic. He was too embarrassed to hum so settled for repeating Dillon’s key phrases - that he was safe, that he was loved, that nothing could harm him now - and prompting him to breathe. He wanted to rush home immediately but knew it wasn’t practical and so used every trick he’d been taught by their psychologist to make the man feel better. Later they’d have a serious talk about Dillon going back to see the psych more regularly, but right then David just did his best to imitate the slow, calming voice and remember the breathing exercises correctly.

“You need to hear this voicemail,” Dillon whispered after several long minutes. “She sounds so, um, so, so scared. And then it’s like... like someone took the, the phone from her or something. I think, I think she screamed... It’s pretty horrible, Love. Um...”

“Did she say her name?” David asked the question, dreading the answer he knew he would likely hear. 

“Um. Harris, I think?” Dillon’s voice shook. “Or, or, um... I don’t... I could... I could play it back again and check...”

“No,” David told him bluntly, cursing himself when he heard Dillon’s sharp inhalation. “No, Love. You’ve done good. You’ve done enough. D’you hear me, Dillon? You’re okay, and you’ve done the right thing, and it’s all going to be alright. That sounds like Ms. Harris. I work with her at the uni, she’s getting on a bit, but I’ll look in to it, alright? Can you do me a favour? Make a cup of tea and head on out to the garden for a bit. I’ll get home as soon as I can, okay?”

“I... I can’t,” Dillon told him and David could just about see him straighten his shoulders and jut his chin out. “I got a, a, a call a bit before, from work. They, um, need me to come in early, so I... need to, to, to go.”

David wanted, more than anything else, to insist that Dillon call his boss back to say he couldn’t come in. Hell, he’d call the woman himself if he thought he could get away with it, because he felt certain that Dillon wasn’t showing even half of the stress he was feeling, but he also knew that he couldn’t. He couldn’t run Dillon’s life or keep him locked up safe at home, not when he was finally venturing back out and rebuilding his confidence. They couldn’t treat the panic attacks as setbacks or they’d both get stuck in a rut. There was also the fact that if he tried to tell Dillon what to do he’d be told to butt out and get lost. It was a fine line to walk and David did not want to mess up and have Dillon mad at him, or worse, destroy his trust when everything was still so precarious.

David turned his back on the room in embarrassment when he realised he had been staring in to space, thinking about how good Dillon’s skin had felt under his hands the night before, how wonderful his lips had felt as they’d kiss, and that Dillon was still on the line and waiting for a response. He couldn’t afford to get distracted, not now, when he could finally see the edges of the case and where the other pieces might go. 

“Just take it easy then, alright? Make sure you’ve got your chair and take breaks and-”

“And not overdo things. I know,” Dillon told him with a hint of his usual humour. “And when I’m done you’ll, um, pick me up and, and, and take me some place fancy for, for tea. Is that still the plan?”

“Yeah,” David agreed, unable to stop the smile that spread across his lips. “I don’t know where yet but somewhere. Text me if you have any ideas. And, don’t worry about Eleanor Harris, I’ll sort that all out now. I’m sure it’s nothing,” he lied smoothly. “Oh, and Dillon? I love you.”

“Love you too,” came the soft reply. “Be safe. I’ll see you, um, at eight.” 

David gave himself a moment to reflect after hanging up the phone, because there were too many conflicting emotions bubbling away inside him and he needed to put them in order before he tried to do anything. At the top of the list was fear. He was afraid for Dillon but reminded himself that his boyfriend could handle himself very well, knew to call him in an emergency, and really wouldn’t hesitate to hit someone with his cane if he felt threatened. Yes, he acknowledged, he felt fear. But he could rationalise it, which meant he could move on. Next came the knot of worry and guilt that was Eleanor Harris. She had attempted to call him the night before, probably several times, and he hadn’t answered. He hadn’t answered because he had finally managed to undress the man he loved, and hadn’t wanted to jeopardise his relationship by leaving the room to answer the phone, but he wasn’t about to let anyone know that slice of information and would just have to live with the fact that he had missed the chance to hear what she might have had to say. On the list after those worries was the glaring truth that, no matter how everyone might want to convince themselves otherwise, there was now a very good chance that the Longboat Killer had returned to his old habits.

“I need to get hold of the old Longboat Killer case files,” he said, walking carefully to the door. “And I need anything you can give me in the way of newspaper clippings and media reports as well. I need to know about those murders.” He looked across to Smith and wondered what the man saw that made him look so worried. “I need to go follow a hunch. I’ll see you soon.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just walked quickly out of the office and down the corridor, another list forming in his brain. He sped straight home, cursing when he realised that Dillon had already left for work, listened to the disturbing voicemail, saved it, and then recorded it on to his mobile for good measure. It was definitely Professor Harris’s voice, and to his ear there were definitely sounds of a struggle before the call ended. She sounded terrified and desperate to tell him something, though she wouldn’t say what. As he headed out the door again he grabbed his copy of ‘Mystery of the Adelaide Longboat Killer’ and a clean shirt and tie to wear to dinner, sent the recording to Smith, and then jumped back in to his car to head south. 

*

“I don’t know what more you expect me to tell you,” the archivist muttered. “This isn’t some fancy inner city establishment, we don’t have electronic files for all this, and I can’t tell you what articles the girl took because they’re gone. It could have been anything. Why don’t you just ask her instead of bothering me?”

David clenched his jaw until it ached and before he tried to answer the crotchety librarian. They’d just got off on the wrong foot was all, he told himself, because the older man, who looked like he hadn’t been out in the sun for at least thirty years, had declared that there was no way he was letting David in to the library with his coffee, even with a lid.

“Look, Harvey,” he said reasonably, trying, once again to find an opening, any way at all, to get the man on side. “I can’t ask Miss Goodfellow. She hasn’t been seen since the night she was here, looking in your archives. I did mention that the last time I was here. That’s why it’s so important that you try and remember what those clippings might have been about. Any details you can recall would be immensely helpful.”

He tried to put on a winning smile but it was met with a sneer. The man’s attitude was starting to get to him but he convinced himself that it was no more than ignorance on the old man’s part rather than anything more sinister or suspicious. 

“Well all I know is they weren’t from anything big,” the librarian snapped, moving the large folders of newspaper clippings out of David’s reach and shuffling the piles of photocopied documents fussily. “The folder that the girl left out wasn’t for one of the big papers, wasn’t a national. That folder held clippings from a local paper. They’re only important because we’re the only place around who keeps them. I can’t see what it would’ve meant to the girl. Candice,” he ceded gracelessly. You should talk to her mother, she used to be a right greasy-fingered gossip. Candice probably took the clippings for her. Go bother her, not me.”

“I’ve spoken to her,” David told him stonily. His temper was deteriorating as he stepped in to the man’s space. He didn’t have the height advantage but then again he rarely did so wasn’t put off when the librarian attempted to loom over him. David had youth and temper on his side and crossed his arms in a subtle display. The librarian was in his sixties and whilst he had the strength to heft books around the place they both knew who would win if it came to an actual show of strength. “And now I’m speaking to you. Have a think, Harvey. I have it on good authority that nothing gets past you around here, so if anything strange has been happening locally you’ll be the one to know. Miss Goodfellow was a student of mine, she was researching something here in your library. Her mother,” he paused long enough to see the man scowl and then to watch it slide from his unkind features. “Her mother is distraught. She hasn’t seen her daughter for over two weeks. You might be one of the last people who did see her, and your folders of clippings and local news were the last things we know she was looking at.” 

He watched the older man retreat, clutching one of his beloved folders to his chest. “I’ll go back over them,” he agreed hoarsely. “Perhaps one of the other clippings will give some clue.”

“You do that,” David told him, gathering his coat and stepping back toward the door that separated the archives room from the main library. “Oh, and just one thing before I go, since you’re such an expert in local history” he said, grinning sharply and pleased at the way the old librarian’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know about the Longboat Murders?”

Watching the way the way the man’s eyes widened near comically was the first thing that had given David any satisfaction since he’d left the house that morning.

* 

Driving back toward the city David concentrated on his breathing as best he could. He suspected that the librarian knew more than he was saying, which bothered him, and his reaction to David mentioning the murders had been telling, like he was frightened but not surprised. If he’d possibly known Professor Harris back in the days of the original murders there was a chance that he might know what she had known, or suspected. He would need to talk to the man again but not yet. He’d give the librarian a chance to look through his precious newspaper clippings first, find something he could show off, to make himself feel more superior, then he’d introduce the idea that he tell David what he could about Professor Harris and the Longboat Killer.

He took another unsteady breath as he neared the southernmost worksite for the new overpass and tried to clamp down on his own unease. He was following a hunch, not something he normally liked to do, because hunches did not stand up in court, and so tried to justify it to himself as he drove. Dillon had mentioned that the mounds by the new overpass looked just like the ones in the book, and even though it wasn’t a lot to go on David couldn’t get it out of his mind, so he thumbed through the pages himself as he sat at the lights until he found what he was looking for. Even though he’d only ever seen them in the dark, from the car window, he couldn’t deny that there was a similarity, and even if the photographs were in black and white and the resolution was poor the shapes were clear enough, and chilling enough when one considered what lay beneath them. There was a symmetry to the oval mounds in the photos that David doubted would occur normally on a work site, when dumping loose soil, and the mounds Dillon had pointed out had seemed a little too neat, a little too similar, but he refused to let himself get too excited. If he got ahead of himself and he was wrong Campbell would find some way of making his life hell. The man wanted to retire with a good record and the Longboat Killer had apparently ruined that for more than one Commissioner. But if he was right and there really were bodies buried at the new overpass site, then there really was no time to waste.

When he finally arrived at the spot David hesitated. There were three mounds. Three oval-shaped mounds neatly in a row, beside a hole that looked like it was waiting patiently to be filled. Three mounds. He could have sworn there were only two when they drove past the night before, and they were located on the very edge of the site, where no work was being done, and the more he stared the more suspicious it seemed, but he still couldn’t be sure. His original plan had been to go straight to the foreman’s office and ask questions, but instead he pulled up in what was left of a side street, and the one little house that remained after the roads had been torn up to make way for new lanes, new traffic lights, and a bridge that seemed far too large for such a flat, sleepy city. It was a long shot, but if anyone had seen anything, it was probably whoever lived in that house. There was only a low fence and the windows looked directly out on to the site. It was a good place to start. He was just an officer making enquiries, he told himself. Just asking people if they’d noticed anything suspicious. If the answer was no, then Campbell need never know he’d been to the site. If the answer was yes... 

The garden at the front of the house was overgrown with weeds and wild canola and filled with rubbish that must have blown over from the construction site, and as he reached the door David felt the unease returning, like his stomach as attempting to squirm its way out from his body to hide from what was coming, even if he didn’t know what that might be, and he knocked on the door with some hesitance, not really expecting to receive an answer. The house had a sad, neglected feel about it, the sort of building he’d imagined to be haunted when he was child, even down to the net curtains that were grey and thick with dust. After a long moment of silence he heard the sound of footsteps from within and his nerve increased when the door opened with a dramatic creak but the young, heavily pregnant woman was not what he’d been expecting to see on the other side. Though she, it seemed, had been expecting him.

“Oh god, are you police?” she sobbed, and David nodded and pulled out his badge and ID to show her, surveying the junk filled house behind her with its mountains of old newspapers and crates full of bottles and cans and boxes, unwilling to believe that someone so well dressed could live in such a place. “Oh, thank god. It’s my dad. I think something’s happened to my dad.”

***

Dillon fiddled with his mobile. He wished he hadn’t called David that morning, wished he’d just dealt with the damned anxiety on his own. He could have sent a text to let David know there was a voice message, really should have given how calm and unconcerned David had seemed when hearing about it. He felt like such an idiot about it all, especially since he’d probably embarrassed David at work. He just couldn’t seem to shake the panic attacks and even now it made his eyes prickle with tears.

He’d woken up in such a good mood, absolutely reveling in the feel of David’s chest against his back, and the kisses they’d shared, though innocent, had given him hope for the future. David had given him so much and he needed to give David what he wanted in return. Besides which, thinking about how the previous night had begun, before his panic attack - David’s mouth, David’s hands, David’s everything - was making him ache until his pants were tight. He so wanted to do it again, and more, and felt sure that he could. It was an effort not to smile as he thought back to the sweetness of David’s touches, and it at least lessened the embarrassment he felt over his phone call that morning and the freak out the night before. And soon David would be picking him up for dinner, he reminded himself, and they’d have a chance to try again. He’d get it right this time, he was sure of it.

He put his phone under the desk, removing the temptation to send another text. David hadn’t read or replied to the last two and Dillon didn’t want to come off as any needier than he already was when the poor guy was trying to work. They would be able to talk soon enough. He grabbed up his cane instead and wandered out to do a final check of the cats and dogs currently housed in the centre’s kennels. Some days he found it difficult to care for so many animals who didn’t have anywhere else to go, because his instinct was to take them all home with him, but the best he could do was give each a pat and a kind word as he made the rounds so he took his time giving each animal a moment of his love. It was getting late and his leg was throbbing heavily, unused to working such a long shift, but soon he’d be able to lock up for the night and sit down for a bit, and lie down too, he thought with a smile, so he pushed through the pain as he carried on, checking over each animal.

He hummed as he worked and soon found himself so engrossed in his tasks that he didn’t hear the main doors open and close with a click of the lock, or the slow footsteps and squeak of the trolley, and only turned when a shadow fell across shelves of supplies he was checking. His eyes registered the large, solid frame of the man, backlit and unidentifiable, and the sharp glint of something in the man’s hand. As the figure moved toward him he brought his arm forward to defend himself, knowing there was no point in running. His heart flew up into his throat, strangling the scream before it could escape as he tripped backwards, closing his eyes tightly as his cane clattered to the floor and he felt himself falling, squeezing his eyes shut as he was overcome with panic.

“Hey, careful!” Mike’s voice was gentle and concerned as he grabbed Dillon by the arms, changing his fall to a slow descent. “Kid, you okay?”

Dillon opened his eyes as he sat down heavily on the floor, his heart hammering franticly and body buzzing as the urge to run or fight screamed at him, even as he registers that he was safe, and there was no danger after all. Wincing at the tight pull of his thigh muscle and the grind of his bones he looked up, trying to understand what had happened, and trying to control his sharp, painful breaths. Mike was kneeling down beside him, his face one of concern, but Dillon couldn’t shake the fear that had overwhelmed his mind. It had been so long since he’d allowed anyone to creep up on him and with the light behind him Mike had looked like someone else entirely and Dillon’s imagination had run away with him. Already he could feel the blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks and did his best to force the fear down, to hide it from the man before he was labeled an incompetent mess. 

“Sorry... sorry about that,” he mumbled breathily, keeping his head down and letting his hair fall across his face like a curtain to hide his shame. “Must have just, um, just, just lost my footing.” 

“Nah, my fault, my fault,” Mike mumbled, turning away to give Dillon a chance to pull himself together. “I’ve been told that I can be a little too light on my feet at times. I should have let you know I was here.”

Dillon didn’t know what to say in response, how to explain that he was still so jumpy and suspicious, and found himself backing up instead, trying to get his back to the wall. His heart began to hammer when Mike stood, but it was only to offer him a hand, and Dillon took it reluctantly. He was out of the habit of trusting people he supposed, but Mike didn’t seem to mind overly much. Once Dillon was back on his feet the quiet man wandered back to his trolley and began fiddling with the various cleaning products, whistling as he got himself ready for work, though he did glance up occasionally, as if Dillon were an animal he was wary of spooking. 

“Sorry,” he said again, leaning heavily on his cane as he walked back past the animals to where Mike was readying his steam mop. “I’m just, um, just a bit jumpy, is all,” he explained. “My boyfriend, I don’t know if, if I’ve told you but, um, he’s a cop and...” Mike looked up, his shoulders tightening suspiciously at the mention of the word, and Dillon found himself nodding. He recognised that distrust. He knew it well. “He’s looking in to the, um, the um, the disappearance of Candice Goodfellow, actually. The student you met. She was, is... was my boyfriend’s student. That’s why, why, why I had access to a copy of your, um, book. I guess it’s made me jumpy is all.”

Mike nodded in response to Dillon’s confession but didn’t speak immediately, and the silence stretched out between them until Dillon felt the irrepressible urge to fill it with something, with anything, until Mike finally took a deep breath in and began to talk, saying the words as if reading from an auto-cue, with his eyes focused on the wall and with next to no emotion.

“I thought that might be it. I saw you kiss him after your trial, on the news. Is that the bloke? It was quite the image,” he smiled softly. “The press had a field day. But I thought... I thought you’d bring it up after I mentioned talking to Candice, but you didn’t, so then I thought maybe I was wrong about it all. And about that bastard coming back. Should’ve known we wouldn’t be so lucky. D’you know I wrote ten books before the Longboat Killings? Worked for a national paper. Had a nice house, had just started coming to terms with who I was.” He looked down and gave a breathy chuckle before shaking his head. “It took me thirty-five years to figure out that I was experiencing dysphoria, another two years before I realised it wasn’t a sickness and that it was okay to change. But I was still writing under my old name, that was the one people recognised. But,” he gave his head another shake, as if clearing away those thoughts. “The Longboat Killings. When the bodies stopped turning up and things went quiet I kept asking questions and pushing. It’d been a good story, you see, and I didn’t want to let it just fizzle. My readers were invested. I was invested. People wanted closure. I should have let things lie. I got threats but I wrote the book anyway and then the threats... well they came good, I suppose. I was mid-transition at that point, see, though I was keeping it quiet. Next thing I knew I’d been outed, to everyone, before any of us were ready for it. I lost my job, my family, my house... my life. You should tell your boyfriend to leave it well alone.”

Dillon shivered at the darkness and the grief, and what almost sounded like a threat in those words, and watched as the man bent to switch on his steam mop and began cleaning the concrete floor. His shoulders were so heavily slumped, like the weight of his past was still upon him, and Dillon wanted to cross the space and hug him, but still wasn’t sure that such an action would be welcome. He wasn’t good at judging that sort of thing and didn’t want to cause the older man any embarrassment or further heartache.

“I’m really sorry,” he said, for lack of anything better. “But, but, but David probably wouldn’t listen to me if I, um, if I told him to stop an investigation. He’s pretty stubborn.”

“Not like you at all then?” Mike said with a low chuckle and Dillon dipped his head to hide his smile at the man’s canny understanding.

“But he’s, um, he’s good at what he does,” he continued, not sure what he was trying to prove, or whether it was for his own benefit or for Mike’s. “He’s one of the, um, one of the best, especially when it comes to, to, to serial killers. And he’s genuinely one of the good guys. I swear. If anyone can get to, to, to the bottom of a bunch of random, twenty year old murders and, and, and creepy burials, it’s David.”

Mike looked up at that, his pale eyes fearful as he leaned in to whisper, as if frightened the dogs and cats around them might overhear. “Those murders weren’t random. That’s why he needs to forget it and walk away, d’you understand? There was nothing random about the way those people died.”

“Tell me,” Dillon said with a shiver, not sure why he needed to know, just that he needed to. “Why wasn’t it random? They, they were each killed in completely different ways. What’s the connection?”

“History,” Mike told him, his voice barely loud enough for Dillon to hear. “It’s like Eleanor always said. The connection’s there in the history books. Those deaths all happened like that for a reason. And they’ll happen again. There’s no stopping it now.”


	6. Chapter 6

As the first drop of rain hit his hand David turned his head, dragging his eyes away from the hole, trying to muster some sort of emotion; something, anything, beyond the cold dread that seemed to have saturated his mind. Nothing came. All around him people were rushing to erect tarpaulin tents over the three holes, hoisting up flood lights, taking photographs, soil samples, and god knew what else, but David couldn’t muster the strength to do anything useful. 

He was being left alone, he supposed, because everyone assumed that he was deep in thought. With Campbell out of the state and not answering his phone David was in charge of the investigation until further notice and had been informed by several people who could technically be called his boss, and were definitely his superiors, that he had their blessings and resources to get the investigation moving, and he knew he should have been pleased by such a show of support. Instead there was only dread. And it was getting worse. He was going to have to break the news to Helen Goodfellow, and no matter how much she seemed to have accepted that her daughter would not be coming back, he knew that the confirmation would hit her hard. 

What he wanted to do, really, was to sit down for a while and just think everything through, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He was in charge and he needed to act the part; he’d done it often enough before now, but his brain just did not seem to want to cooperate. All he could see was Candice Goodfellow, her body decaying in a broken boat, surrounded by her books, her phone, the random accessories of her backpack. He’d been under the impression that the Longboat Killer buried his victims with precious processions and ‘worldly goods’ but Candice’s burial seemed lackadaisical at best, and the level of decay seemed wrong for the amount of time she’d been missing. 

Was it possible that they were dealing with a copy-cat and not the original Longboat Killer, David wondered. If so it would require a whole new set of parameters and expectations. He needed to call a profiler and get a second opinion, but there just didn’t seem to be enough time. He took a step closer and looked back down in to the shallow hole Candice had been buried in. The top of the boat was barely a foot below the surface and he knew that he really needed to go down there and inspect her injuries and burial more closely, as he’d done for Professor Harris and the other victim, Philip Bingle, but he still struggled. He’d known her, he’d liked her, and on some level he’d been responsible for her welfare, which meant that he had failed her.

It still had to be done though, and David swallowed the feelings of personal grief, despair, and dread as best he could as he prepared himself for the task. The woman from the forensics team was down there, frowning at the body, and David took a deep breath and let it out slowly before sliding down the loose dirt to stand beside her.

“Tell me why this feels wrong, Adita?” he muttered, and she gave him a small, brief smile before answering, as if surprised that he’d remembered her name.

“Well sir,” she said climbing to her feet and brushing the dust from her gloves on to her blue, crime scene overalls. “She should be a bit further along, if you get me? You say she’s been missing for a few weeks, yet she still looks recognisable, when really, in a shallow grave, with nothing to preserve the body, her decomp should be much more advanced.”  
“Freezer?” David asked, flicking his gaze to her face before focusing back on Candice.

“That would be my guess,” she nodded. “But that’s not all, sir. There’s something a little odd,” she hesitated. “In the victim’s jeans. Down the front of them, I mean. I’ve only just noticed it and didn’t want to remove it without showing you first.”

She seemed perturbed and David joined her as she squatted down to carefully remove what appeared to be several pieces of worn out paper from the victim’s crotch. It was thin, old and yellowed, and the writing and photographs were too badly smudged, from the defrosting and decomposing of Candice’s body, to give them any clue of what had been printed on them. They were the newspaper cuttings that were missing from the library archives, he guessed, the ones Harvey Bach had been so cross about, but he had no idea why they had ended up stuffed down the front of the victim’s jeans. Adita held up the largest of the cuttings between her tweezers, her face almost comically confused about such a turn in the story, but David simply grabbed an evidence bag and held it open for her to deposit the fragile paper inside. There had been nothing sexual about the old killings, had there? 

He cursed himself again for not having read the whole book, because he needed to know what was going on in this case, but the very thought caused him to pause. In the last lecture Candice had attended, David had talked about the need for attention and recognition so many killers displayed. While some people committed the acts out of a genuine belief that it was necessary and did all within their power to hide it, and some killed just to prove their superiority and to hurt others, most had an underlying desire to have their acts known, and to be acknowledged and talked about and feared. There were some, of course, whose motives didn’t fit with any sort of profile, but David hadn’t written that lecture yet, because those sorts of serial killers frightened him the most. But the more he thought about it, the more a picture began to emerge. 

Candice had been looking through old news clippings when she’d disappeared, and had contacted a journalist who had reported on the original killings. The same journalist who’s name appeared in Eleanor’s diary. The very same journalist who had written the one and only book on the murders. The journalist who Dillon had met supposedly by chance. David didn’t want to jump to conclusions but he could feel his blood beginning to race, fueled by adrenaline, and knew that he needed to talk to Michael Magarey.

He turned his attention back to the scraps of newspaper being bagged and held another up, close to his face, trying to make any sense out of the smudged ink. “Adita,” he asked softly, waiting for the woman to come and join him as he examined the evidence. “Does that look like numbers to you?”

He moved to give her room beside him but didn’t take his eyes away from the paper. The markings were faint, and small enough to strain the eyes, but he was sure there was more to see.

“Nine, eight and... two, maybe,” Adita answered after a minute, her brow still deeply furrowed. “A date? Nineteen eighty-two? But the Longboat Murders happened in the nineties, didn’t they? why would she be looking at papers from ten years before they even took place?”

David shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Somewhere off in the darkness a call went out and then in a flash the flood lights switched on, bathing the crime scene in harsh light, removing any chance to ignore the fact that the woman lying in the mouldering dinghy in the earth, his student, was anything but dead. He looked back at what was left of the newspaper clipping, lifting the evidence bag up to his eyes one last time to try and figure out what it might have once said. He didn’t particularly want to make another trip back to the Whitecove library so soon but he would certainly have to call to describe what they’d found, to chivvy the librarian along in his search for what Candice had found, and decided that a visit to the university archives would be useful too, but those things would have to wait until tomorrow. 

Tonight he would call Helen, assign officers to speak with the other victims’ families, and then head back to the office to get a head start on the old Longboat files. More information would come in once the crime scene had been processed and the bodies were back at the morgue and he’d be in a better position to receive it at all the station. He could start building an official profile there as well, and type it all up to send out to the team involved and to hand to Campbell. There was even a chance that if he headed back to the city now he’d be able to get on the phone with the profiler he’d worked with in Melbourne, to talk it all through and come up with a more concrete plan. He would need to draft a press release too, and knew he would have to tread carefully with regard to the information they made public. A serial killer becoming active again after so long would make people nervous. Hell, it was making him nervous, and once folk remembered how random the victims had supposedly been last time, that nervous energy would turn to panic.

Then again, he mused, staring off toward the sad run-down little house that had belonged to Philip Bingle, these killings didn’t seem so random, at least not as far as the choice of each victim. Candice had been researching the case and Eleanor Harris had been an expert who the police had consulted. Even Bingle, who seemingly had nothing to do with the original killings, hadn’t been chosen completely at random. David guessed that from the lounge room window Bingle would have a pretty clear view of the site. It was just possible that he had witnessed the killer burying Candice, and had been killed himself as a result. 

The choice of victims made sense. David could see why the killer might have felt forced to become active again in order to tie up loose ends and cover his tracks, but the different methods for the three murders was troubling. A killer without an MO tended to be more difficult. He was going to need to see the old case files if he was going to understand the killer enough to get ahead of him, and if he was going to be able to track down other potential victims. Everyone who’d been involved in the original investigation would have to be notified, and that in itself would be a trying task.

“Sharma!” He turned to see Smith trotting toward him, his face grim and tired. His day had been longer than David’s and he was wearing an expression that said David was not going to like what he had to say. “I just got word. Thought you should know. It’s the old files.”

David felt the dread return. “What about them?”

“I’ve had a clerk looking for them most of the day, since you ran off following this hunch... and it was one hell of a hunch, by the way.”

“Thanks,” David mumbled, but he wasn’t in the mood for small talk or pleasantries. “So, the case files? Where are they?”

“Nowhere, it seems,” Smith grunted, and David could hear the disappointment in the man’s voice, his face pale in the artificial light and sluggish rain. “They’re just not there. The stacks’ve been scoured, every section, every possible place they could’ve been mis-filed, but they’re just not there.”

David frowned and pulled the man under the tarpaulin, out of the rain. There should have been shelves worth of files, boxes of evidence and photographs and statements. There had been too much to just misplace. 

“You’re telling me it’s all gone? Just gone?” he asked. It seemed a stupid question as he asked it but Smith didn’t look at him like it was, his face was so grave it seemed grey.

“This is serious, Sharma,” he muttered. “This shouldn’t be possible, and it’s beyond what you and I can investigate. For all he’s a prick the Commissioner’s the man we need to call. He can set up an internal investigation.” 

David nodded. As much as he hated that idea he knew it was the only real option and that Smith wouldn’t have suggested it if he thought anyone else might be able to help. “This is going to be a really long night,” he muttered. “I don’t know if I can get a proper profile of this guy without those notes.”

“You can. You have to.” Both men’s eyes were drawn again, as if by compulsion, to the shallow grave beside them and David heard the detective beside him let out a weary sigh. “You were teaching her class because you’re the best at this, so quit the drama, knuckle down, and see what that brain of yours can come up with, alright?”

David tried to look away from the way Candice’s arms had been arranged over her breasts, the way her knees were tucked up to her chest, the wide gape of her mouth; she looked so young and frightened, like a child hiding from the dark, and while he knew that the position of her body could be put down to the fact that she’d probably been kept in a small chest freezer, he couldn’t seem to separate himself from the emotional reaction. Eventually he shook his head, to clear the cobwebs that were forming, and turned away to gaze out at the busy crime scene. 

“I need to notify the families.”

“Bingle’s only got his daughter,” Smith countered. “You took her statement and uniform are following up with anyone that might have visited his house, and with the work crew that were digging nearby. I tried to contact the Professor’s next of kin this morning but came up empty. She’s lived alone for at least a decade, had no children. Her sister passed away about a year ago. There’s no immediate family to notify.”

“I need to call Helen,” David insisted. “Candice Goodfellow’s mother. She deserves to be notified as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, fine,” Smith retorted sharply, bumping his elbow in to David’s side in an attempt to snap him out of his strange trancelike state. “Do that, then go home. I’d order you, but that wouldn’t wash, so I’m making it a request.”

“I should go back to the office.” He knew what had to be done, had a list in his head, yet suddenly he just felt too overpoweringly tired, as if his strength had been siphoned from his muscles, leaving him grey and empty behind his eyes.

“You should go home,” Smith insisted again. “The body’s are ready to be transported back to the morgue, the evidence is gathered, and uniform will be posted round the perimeter. There’s nothing more to do here, not tonight.”

“But there’s still so much to do.” David knew that his voice had turned to a mumble, but he couldn’t control it. His brain was still trying to process the facts but it was sluggish and even if his face was blank and his eyes unfocused he could tell that Smith was glaring at him. He’d been on the receiving end of that glare so often he could feel it even when he couldn’t see it. 

“Yes, there is,” Smith huffed. “And you better believe I’ll be waking you up bright and early to deal with it tomorrow morning. But you won’t solve this tonight. Without the files there’s nothing at the office you can do. Go home. Email Campbell, email your profiler buddies, make notes if you want to, but do it at home. The last thing we need is you falling asleep at the wheel and crashing out because you tried to drive home at two in the morning.”

David nodded slowly and caught the eye of Adita, who began to gather her team and head in his direction. They’d all be expecting him to recap, to tell them all what was going on and dismiss them for the night. He was in charge, it was his job, and within a minute the forensics crew, uniformed officers, and homicide team were huddled in the make-shift tent where Adita had covered the exposed boat, and the body within, with a waterproof crime scene sheet. He kept it short, stuck to the facts, made sure not to mention the Longboat Killer, and made double sure that everyone knew he appreciated their work. He’d made no secret of how distasteful he found Campbell’s style of leadership and wanted to take the opportunity to be deliberately different in his treatment of those working under him. 

As he spoke he realised that there really wasn’t a lot more they could do that night and experience told him that working people too hard and too late into the night just led to mistakes later on. Not to mention dissent in the ranks. He wanted to do this right, he realised as the fog began to clear from his mind, to show that he really did deserve the position he’d been given. He dismissed them all and watched as the three bodies were carefully removed and carried away, followed by the possessions they’d been buried with. The boats themselves could wait until tomorrow.

“You did good,” Smith told him stiffly as they walked away from the dismantled burial mounds. “Now go break the news to the mother and then try to get yourself home before midnight.”

David snorted but couldn’t deny that going home and lying down was a very tempting “It’s nowhere near midnight, it’s barely nine.”

“True,” Smith agreed. “But when I called my wife she was already worrying where I’d gotten to. You can’t tell me Dillon was any different.”

“Oh, god.” David stopped in his tracks, car keys in his hand. He hadn’t booked a restaurant, hadn’t called to say he would be late, hadn’t been at the animal rescue centre at eight. “Dillon!”

***

Dillon limped carefully from the kitchen to the lounge room, keeping his eyes on his cup of tea as he went, then swore loudly when the hot liquid slopped over the edge of the cup and on to his fingers anyway. He reckoned it’d been a good three years since he’d been able to make himself a full, proper, cup of tea and sit down to drink it. Three years of limping and pain, if you didn’t count the months when he’d been stuck in bed, and he was so thoroughly sick of it. His therapists, his physio and his psychologist, just kept repeating that he needed to take things easy and give himself more time, but patience had never been his strong point. He wanted to be back to his old-self. He wanted to ride a bike again and actually work with the animals at the shelter rather than just minding the counter and assisting in the easy stuff, and he wanted to be able to tell David about how he felt without stumbling over every word.

There was a referral to a speech therapist on the fridge, it had been there for months, since before David had moved in, but Dillon didn’t want to go down that path. He felt useless and broken enough without adding another diagnosis into the mix. David never made a big deal when it took him twice as long as anyone else to get a sentence out, the same as he never got impatient when Dillon took twice as long to walk anywhere, and Dillon smiled fondly as he finally made it to the sofa with what was left of his tea. The terror and panic he’d felt when David hadn’t been there at the end of his shift, and the embarrassment he’d felt, standing there all dressed up with nowhere to go, had been somewhat mollified by the frantic nature of David’s text messages and Dillon had spent the last two hours alone in the house, reminding himself that forgetting one pick up and one date, and not answering messages for a few hours, didn’t mean that David didn’t love him. 

Mike had offered to stay with him but Dillon had lied and said he’d be fine. He knew the guy was just trying to be kind, and he’d appreciated the lift home hugely, but he didn’t want to put him to any extra trouble and was still a little nervous of letting someone new in to his life. It tended to make things complicated and had led, in the past, to people he’d trusted trying to kill him. He had, mostly, come to terms with the fact that David’s job was occasionally dangerous, and that there was nothing he could do to change that, but he’d taken as many steps as he deemed reasonable in keeping himself clear of danger, short of becoming a recluse again. He had the sneaking suspicion that David thought he should get out more but he himself didn’t seem to have much time for socialising, or desire to meet new people, so Dillon figured they were a well matched pair. 

One of the few people that Dillon knew for sure that David liked was Tom Smith. The Smith’s had even invited them over for dinner once, and though Dillon thought they were nice enough, he couldn’t forget that three years ago Detective Smith had been the man to question him on suspicion of murder. It made the prospect of actual friendship seem remote, and had added a level of awkwardness to their interactions. The only positive that Dillon had been able to take away from his evening with Tom, his wife, and their daughter was that at least he hadn’t had a panic attack or burst in to tears in front of them. He didn’t want people knowing his business, or seeing him vulnerable, he got enough pity about the leg without adding the emotional stuff in to the mix, and he didn’t want pity

In fact, Dillon realised, the only person he’d messed up in front of lately was Mike, and he wondered if that was a good thing and a sign that he considered the man trustworthy and safe, or whether it meant the opposite. He’d always been a bit skittish around people who were strongly built or taller than him, men in particular. He’d heard all the jokes about a Napoleon complex and short-man syndrome but he knew it wasn’t that. Dillon just knew to avoid the sort of people who could actually beat the shit out of him, these days at least. Sometimes he missed being the headstrong kid who thought he was invincible and incapable of losing a fight, but he couldn’t change the past, couldn’t change what had happened to him, all he could do was try to work through it and come out the other side. But it was a hard thing to do alone. 

He looked around the cozy living room. The walls and carpet were a bit old fashioned, eighties beige he called them, and he’d done his best to brighten the place up with paintings and photographs and books, but sometimes he worried that it still looked a little sad. Sometimes he worried that it still looked like only he lived there, because David hadn’t brought much with him when he moved in. David, of course, had only shrugged and given him one of those charming smiles, a flash of white teeth behind his scruffy black stubble, as he explained that he really didn’t own a lot of stuff and wasn’t keen on nick-knacks and mementos. Dillon had tried no to feel insecure about that but had ended up defensive and snarky instead. It hadn’t been their first fight and Dillon knew it wouldn’t be their last. He could laugh about it now, because the argument had ended when they both realised that they were arguing about furnishings. For Dillon a home meant somewhere he could feel safe and in control. For David a home was somewhere he lost his shoes and clothes and keys and just happened to live, apparently. They still had a lot to sort out, and a lot to get used to, but they could hardly do that when David wasn’t around.

Trouble jumped in to his lap, the clever old cat carefully avoiding his bad leg as he kneaded and circled and eventually curled up to sleep. Animals were easier than people, you knew where you stood with most animals. They didn’t forget to text you for a start, or say they’d be home in an hour and leave you sitting, waiting up for them two hours after that. Whatever it was, and David had dodged around giving any actual detail, it was serious, and Dillon reminded himself, again, that David had a job to do, and that their relationship wasn’t the be all and end all of David’s life. Even if it was for Dillon. 

He pulled the engagement ring from his pocket and turned it over and over between his fingers. It was stupid really and he berated himself, not for the first time, for being such a damned romantic. He couldn’t even talk to David about what he wanted, or what terrified him, so there was no way that they were ready for such a mammoth commitment. They had so many milestones still to reach before it would be even halfway appropriate to propose, proper sex for one thing, a cleaning roster for another, but he’d just needed to buy the ring. It was white gold with chips of onyx embedded in it and seemed so utterly David that he hadn’t been able to pass it up, even though he knew it was foolish. He loved David with an intensity that frightened him and sent his heart pelting around his ribcage with bruising force and it was a hard thing to deny.

The sound of a car pulling up in the street snapped him out of the round-about thoughts and he turned sharply, expecting to hear David’s footsteps on the path. Instead there was nothing and the silence felt thick and unnatural. He tried to dismiss his discomfort as paranoia until Trouble looked up sharply, ears pricked and eyes turned suspiciously to the door. Dillon rose as smoothly as he was able, gritting his teeth against the deep, aching throb of his hip and leg, and limped to the front door. There was nothing but darkness when he looked through the spy-hole, and a smudge of a car across the street, nothing to warrant the anxiety that had settled in his chest or the prickling behind his eyes, but he double checked the locks all the same and then slid the chain across as he muttered to himself that he was safe, hoping he’d eventually believe it.

The time on his mobile said 11:49 and he tried not to feel rejected, or to come across as bitchy as he texted David one last time.

‘I’ve put on the chain so you’ll have to use the back door. Sorry. Hope you’ve got your key for the gate.’ He hesitated. He really didn’t want to be the one to ruin things between them. He really wanted David to know that he loved him, but didn’t want to come across as needy, even though he knew that was exactly what he was. ‘I love you. x’

He sent the message and made his way to bed, doubting whether he’d sleep well on his own, but the exhaustion of the double shift and the worry over not knowing where David had gone soon caught up with him and he was asleep before David’s reply came through.

Outside, across the leafy quiet street, someone watched until the light in the window went off before deciding to move on. There were better choices than Dillon Kelly, ones which would attract less attention. The boats were begging to be filled but they would have to wait, there could be no rush, no mistakes, especially since David Sharma had stuck his nose in and already desecrated the first three. It was frustrating but they would win in the end. They always did.


	7. Chapter 7

David’s eyes snapped open as his phone buzzed aggressively across the table. He wasn’t sure when he’d fallen asleep but regretted it immediately. Sleeping at a kitchen table was never a clever thing to do, and his back protested as he sat up properly and snatched up his mobile before it went to voicemail. He looked around Helen’s kitchen, blinking rapidly. The clock on the microwave informed him that it was only just past five in the morning so whoever it was, they probably had something important to tell him. 

“Detective Inspector Sharma,” he mumbled, blinking hard to try and clear his eyes. There was a headache brewing behind them and he knew that it was only going to get worse.

“Not for much longer, Sharma,” came the threatening growl down the line and David jolted upright. “I specifically told you to leave the Longboat Killings alone!” 

“Sir,” he began, but that was as far as he got. He’d honestly thought, when they’d discovered not one but three bodies buried at the construction sight that he’d be justified and would thereby avoid the promised bollocking from his boss. Campbell apparently had other ideas. “Sir, I can explain.”

He scrambled for his notebook as he heard the commissioner working himself up for a really good yell but couldn’t pull his thoughts in to order in time to avoid the inevitable.

“You can explain why you disobeyed a direct order, can you?” came the man’s ugly roar down the line, and David leaned away from the noise, wishing he couldn’t imagine the way Campbell’s cheeks would be turning purple and the way the spittle would be hitting his mobile with every outraged syllable. “Well maybe you’d care to explain a few other things as well, to internal affairs!”

“But we found three bodies,” David, winced at the whine in his tone. He was trying to be reasonable and professional but it was a hard thing to do when Campbell was goading him. “All of them obviously murdered, and recently too. This is a case for homicide, sir.”

“Do you know how many careers the Longboat Murders destroyed?” Campbell replied, his voice changing from a boom to a hissing whisper. “I am two months away from retirement. Two months. I will not have everything I’ve worked to achieve cancelled out by the ghost of that mess. D’you here me?”

There was something in his tone as he said it that caught David’s attention, something very different from the usual pompous blustering and aggressive bullying, and David tried to understand what it could mean. It was no secret that Campbell didn’t like him. The man didn’t seem to like anyone much but he’d taken his hatred to a whole new level with David because he hadn’t had a real say in his hiring, and hated that a ‘foreign faggot’ had been forced upon him, as David had heard himself referred to. The insults stung, David couldn’t deny, and the threats were worrying, but they both knew that he wouldn’t make an official complaint. Campbell was on his way out, David just had to wait. Besides if he chose to make a fuss about his superior’s treatment of him he had no doubt that Campbell would formally write up that David had entered a romantic and sexual relationship with a person of interest during a homicide investigation, and that he would use what he knew to make a big enough fuss that it would ruin David’s career. They were at a stalemate but aside from the threats and snide remarks about Dillon’s appearance and disability, Campbell didn’t seem truly keen to take it to internal affairs. David just had to hold on a little longer, and soon enough Campbell would be able to retire and they’d all get some peace. Campbell’d had a reputation in his younger days as one of the best the force had produced, and seemed obsessed with maintaining that reputation until the end.

“You don’t need to worry, sir,” he said carefully, licking his dry lips and blinking the sleep from his eyes. “I have no intention of being beaten by some serial killer that’s decided to come out of retirement for one last hurrah. I will catch him. Of the bodies we found, one had only been buried that day, we’re close and we have better technology to help us track him down than we did when he first started. We will catch him.”

David made sure to stress the word ‘we’ as he spoke. He could only imagine how it felt to be at the end of his career, no longer at the top of the game, and hoped that convincing Campbell that they could work on this together might just stop the man from making his life a misery. He listened intently as the harsh breathing on the other end of the line slowed and calmed and resisted the urge to punch the air in celebration in case Campbell somehow figured out what he was doing. 

“I based my career on the fact that I was the man the Longboat Killer was too afraid to go up against,” Campbell told him more softly than David had heard him ever speak before. “I took over as Senior Investigator and made a statement. I said he should disappear or I’d put him in a body bag... and the killings stopped, Sharma. They stopped. On my word. My word, Sharma. For twenty years. Now I arrive back after one day away to find it’s all kicked off again, as if it’s not enough that the federal pencil pushers are out for my blood over someone else’s lost receipts, now I’ve got this to pull me under as well.” He took a deep breath, and David found himself holding his, anticipating the words to come, which he knew somehow would be telling. “I just want to retire, Sharma. I’m past my prime, and I know it. The force I knew is changing, changing its colour, its gender, its process,” David heard the distaste but tried to ignore it. This was the most his boss had spoken to him since he’d taken the job and he didn’t want to mess it up, no matter how he disliked the man’s politics. “If this really is the Longboat Killer, and you want any chance at catching him, you’re going to need to listen to me, because there is a chance... a very good chance... that whoever it is, is someone who works with us or knows their way around our archives.”

David felt for a moment as if the floor had given way and he’d fallen straight through the centre of the earth. His heart seemed to fly upward in to the back of this throat and his head was spinning and pounding until he began to worry he might vomit. If anyone else had said it, David would have scoffed and rolled his eyes, but there was real fear now in Campbell’s voice, and the idea that he’d warned David away from the Longboat Killings because of an internal danger made a good deal of sense, especially if Campbell felt that his retirement and pension and reputation were at stake. 

“Are you...” David let the question die. He didn’t want to break the tenuous truce between them by asking if Campbell was sure, so changed tack instead, aiming to build the man’s ego and gain his trust instead. “Are you taking lead on this one, sir?”

“For now,” Campbell told him. “There are a few high-and-mighties who’ve been here even longer than me, who built their careers up in the wake of the Longboat Murders who I will look in to quietly, and one or two others who you should look in to as well. I’ll send information out to you. But in the meantime, stay home, work from there. I’ll call you from my mobile to avoid the internal landlines in case they’re tapped and I suggest you do the same. Don’t call the office.”

“But, sir-” David tried to argue but Campbell’s softer side had faded and he overrode him with his usual rough bluster.

“But nothing, Sharma. Everyone we work with knows that I told you not to poke your nose in to those old murders. I’ll put it ‘round that I called you and put the fear up you. Act like you’re laying low, taking the day to put your case together. And you will be putting your case together. You pass everything on to me, you hear? I just need you to make sure it’s not someone I’ve worked with for twenty years before you make it public, you understand me?”

“Yes sir. Understood, sir.” David ran his hand down over his tired face. He didn’t like it but at the same time he could understand why the commissioner wanted to keep things close to his chest, and control the game. “Is there anything you can give me now? So I can get started?”

He heard the man chuckle darkly and knew that his voice was betraying how tired he was. The sun wasn’t up yet and he’d been awake until at least three, comforting Helen, sending off emails, and going over the notes Candice had left in her copy of ‘The Mystery of the Longboat Killer’. He was beyond tired but knew that he had to show willing. If Campbell was willing to give him a chance he couldn’t show weakness. He clenched his jaw against the mocking tone of the man’s laugh and waited. He could work with a man he disliked in order to catch a killer.

“There’s two I can think of, off the top of my head,” Campbell informed him when his laughter elicited no response. If he was disappointed he gave no indication. “One’s a journalist by the name of Magarey. She’s been out of the game since the interest in the Longboat Killer died, I don’t know where she is now, but she knew Eleanor Harris well.” He paused to clear his throat and David fancied he could hear the emotion the man must be feeling as he processed that the professor was amongst the victims. She had worked with Campbell on the case all those years ago and David guessed it had to be a blow for him. “None of the archives team from that time are still knocking about the place but there are one or two I might try to quietly get in touch with. But the other I want you to look in to is someone you know. He was the new boy on the case all those years ago, and his career stalled when the case did, and I always wondered, what with him being first on the scene after Eleanor was...”

“And who was that, sir?” David asked with a growing sense of dread. There were only so many people it could be, and he did not like the implications.

“Detective Sergeant Smith with the Serious Crime Squad,” Campbell answered simply. “He seems like true blue, I know, but I’ve always had my doubts and... perhaps now it’s the time to get it all out in the open, before it’s too late.”

David wasn’t sure how to respond, or how to end the call, and somehow mumbled his way through until Campbell wished him luck and hung up. He’d emailed several other police profilers the night before and they would be sending through their assessments later in the day but he simply couldn’t believe that Smith could be the man responsible. He was a friend, for god’s sake, and one of the few people he actually trusted. Even Dillon trusted him, even though Smith’d had the sorry job of interviewing him on suspicion of murder only days after he was forced off of his bike and in to the Sturt River by a homicidal maniac. Surely that counted for something.

David’s body gave a sudden shake as he realised that he hadn’t spoken to Dillon since the previous morning, and that he hadn’t gone home. In his desire to get the case moving forward, and to inform Helen and support her in her grief he’d forgotten to stay in touch with Dillon. He looked around frantically for his satchel and began gathering his belongings and stuffing them inside. He needed to get home, and not just to begin working on the case. He needed to make sure that Dillon was safe, and to apologise to letting him down and not telling him where he was.

As he crept from Helen’s flat as quietly as he could he wondered whether Dillon would be angry with him and what he might be able to do to apologise. He put his hand in to his jacket pocket and closed it around the familiar shape of the ring box. He needed to make things up to Dillon; he couldn’t bear to lose him.

***

Waking up alone was not something Dillon enjoyed, but waking without being immediately overwhelmed by grief and fear and with nothing but silence for company was a hard-fought skill, and it rankled that after only a few weeks of sharing a bed with David he felt like a useless, pining, mess all over again. If something had happened to David, something horrible and unthinkable, would someone think to call him? He’d heard horror stories of queer people being denied access to their partners in hospital if the family decided to kick up a fuss, and while Dillon felt pretty sure that David’s family wouldn’t do that, he was also pretty sure that his name wasn’t on any official next-of-kin paperwork. Would a hospital know to call him? Would anyone David worked with think to call him, or would he be conveniently forgotten?

Dillon tried to pull his thoughts back as they devolved in to panicked ramblings but wasn’t sure what to replace them with. He didn’t like being alone, and he didn’t like not knowing what was going on and he didn’t like waking up to an empty bed. He ran his hands roughly down his face, scratching his nails over the two day old stubble as he tried to focus his mind. He just needed to call David, he decided, and hope that this time he didn’t embarrass himself in doing so. Even knowing what he needed to do, and having a plan for the phone call, Dillon hesitated, unable to make his body do what he wanted, and it was several more minutes before he was able to force himself to pick up his mobile from the bedside and press call. 

“Hey, listen, I am so sorry.” David’s voice came so suddenly, after only a single ring, that Dillon jumped and nearly dropped the phone. Instead he ended up yanking the charger from the wall and swore as he sat forward, but as he recovered himself and began the painful process of standing he felt a horrible creeping suspicion clawing its way up in to his chest at the guilt he heard in David’s tone.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, hating how needy and how accusatory his tone was but unable to stop himself. “You, you, you didn’t come home last night.”

“I know, and it’s been a long night,” David hedged, and Dillon heard muffled clattering and banging in the background of the call, as if David were still on the move even as he apologised to Dillon for being absent. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you keep saying,” Dillon replied, anger mounting as he struggled to stand, the cane shaking in his hand. His leg already hurt too much, the scar tissue around his shin tugging as he tried to walk around the bedroom and ease the tight muscles. “But you, you, you, um, won’t actually say why, Love, and it’s, it’s kind of got me on edge, you know? What’s happened?” He could hear David breathing, knew he’d heard the question, but he didn’t answer. If he gave an excuse, or tried to change the subject, Dillon knew he wouldn’t been able to hold his anger in. It was one of the drawbacks to being in a relationship with someone so naturally charming; sometimes David used it on him to side step arguments and conversations that really needed to happen. ‘Charming Detective’ was David’s default setting and while Dillon knew that he didn’t always do it on purpose, it still made it difficult sometimes to get an answer out of him. Still, as far as Dillon could tell, David wasn’t trying to charm his way out of the conversation just then, he sounded exhausted and uncertain, and Dillon felt his anger begin to melt. “Where are you now, Love?”

“Front door?” 

Dillon pursed his lips against the fond smile that was attempting to break through. David sounded lost and secretly Dillon found it incredibly endearing but knew how the man felt about seeming vulnerable, so tried not to smile or look overly serious either as he limped to the front door and unlatched the chain. The man on the other side was so incredibly rumpled that Dillon’s heart clenched and he bit his lip to stop himself from actively embarrassing them both. He did want answers after all. It wouldn’t do to let David have a free pass on staying out all night without telling Dillon where he was or if he was safe. 

David wasn’t looking him in the eye, which was more a sign that he was beyond tired than anything else, and Dillon took the opportunity to study the man standing on the stoop before him. His black curls were beautifully mussed, like a dark halo around his head, and his shirt was hanging off his shoulder at an angle, the cuffs unbuttoned and flapping around his wrists. He’d been wearing a tie when he left the house the day before, Dillon was sure of it, but there was no sign of it now and instead Dillon had a very fine view of the man’s muscular chest and smattering of tightly curled chest hair. His skin, which usually reminded Dillon of a dark, burnished bronze, was a little pale and washed out. There were shadows under his eyes too, which told Dillon that David hadn’t just been out all night, he’d been awake, and he moved aside to let him enter without passing comment. Whatever David had been doing over the last twenty-four hours, it hadn’t been pleasant. A chat about responsible boyfriending could probably wait.

“You look tired,” he pointed out once the door was shut and locked again, and watched a smile ghost across David’s face before he finally looked up in to Dillon’s eyes.

“I feel like my soul has dissolved through my shoes.”

The smile escaped at that comment, and Dillon gave up on hiding it. “You’re such a drama queen. Come on, I’ll make you breakfast.” David hesitated for a moment but Dillon was determined. He wasn’t about to let David push himself any further. “I’ll make fancy toasties if you like.”

David perked up at that. “Yeah, alright.”

Dillon slipped his hand in to David’s and gave it a squeeze as they headed slowly in to the kitchen. It was a relief to have him home, no matter the friction between them, and he made David sit at the table as he made his slow way around, boiling the kettle for coffee, taking his morning meds, and assembling the ingredients for David’s favourite food. He didn’t try to fill the silence, not because he was angry, that had passed quickly enough, but because he wanted David to know there was no rush; that he wouldn’t push. 

A glance over his shoulder showed him that David was at least still awake, and that he was slouched back in his chair, face blank but eyes focused on Dillon. Well, on his arse in any case. Dillon shifted his weight subtly, just to check, and watched David absentmindedly lick his lips as his eyes followed the movement. He was too tired to be subtle apparently, and Dillon felt his heart squeeze again, with affection for the man. Of course, once he was aware of the fact that David was checking him out, it was hard to keep his mind on making breakfast and he nearly burnt it all twice before he managed to actually plate it, along with a steaming mug of black coffee.

“Here we go,” Dillon told him, forcing the enthusiasm a little to try and wake David from his daze. “Open top avocado and, and, and, um, cheese toasties with sunny-side eggs. Think that’ll do you?”

David blinked and raised his eyebrows. “You’re a god among men,” he mumbled. “Thanks, Love.”

“Not a worry,” Dillon answered, tucking in to his own breakfast. “I can, um, make you more if you need.”

They ate quietly for a few minutes, listening to the early morning birdsong and distant traffic until David finally put down his knife and fork and took a deep breath. “I had to tell Helen that we found Candice’s body last night.”

“Fuck,” Dillon whispered. “I’m so sorry, Love.” He watched David nod and swallow several times but he seemed incapable of actually responding so Dillon reached out and took his hand, running his thumb across the smooth skin of David’s knuckles. The way David had worded it, that he’d had to tell Helen that her daughter was dead seemed to Dillon’s ears just a little too stoic, and too heartbreaking. “You know she’s... she’s dead then?”

David nodded again. “We found her body. In a boat. Under a mound of earth-” his voice cracked and Dillon tightened his grip. “At the overpass construction site, the one you pointed out to me. Her and two others. One was a colleague.”

Dillon felt a shiver run through him so violent it seemed to rattle the screws and metal plate in his pelvis and made him wince. Mike’s words from the night before rang in his ears, of the terrifying possibility that the Longboat Killer would eventually go back to their sick, incomprehensible, killing spree. Except, he’d learned, it really wasn’t so incomprehensible, not if Mike could be trusted. He wanted to tell David, again, to get in touch with Mike, but knew that it wasn’t what he needed right then, when he was exhausted and heart sore and struggling to be the expert everyone needed him to be.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he repeated. “How did Helen take it?”

David let out a humourless laugh and shook his head, his expressive, beautiful mouth twisted as if he’d been forced to taste something rotten and sour. He hated seeing David bitter or disappointed with the world, Dillon had enough of that inside of him to do for them both, but he knew that despite the easy smile and energy there were shadows in David’s mind that he didn’t share with anyone. ‘You see things in this job’ he sometimes said, when it had been a rough day or week, and Dillon could imagine, but he never pushed. He didn’t want to know what David had seen when he uncovered Candice Goodfellow’s body.

“It’s a funny thing,” David said eventually, glaring down at the table, dark eyes focused on an old coffee ring that had long been etched in to the wood before Dillon had bought it cheap and second hand. “I called her, Helen... to say I needed to come ‘round, because I had news. And when I got there I expected her to have, I don’t know, steeled herself for the worst, you know? She told me from the start that she didn’t believe her daughter was still alive. I probably wouldn’t have chased it up except that she seemed so certain that Candice was... that something terrible had happened. But when I got there she smiled at me when she opened the door and seemed genuinely excited and... I had to destroy all that. I had to break her heart.”

Dillon lunged from his chair to wrap David in a tight hug as the tears began to fall, cradling the man’s head in his arms as he pressed his face to Dillon’s stomach and sobbed. He felt sick, and not because he was standing awkwardly and putting too much weight on his leg; he didn’t care about that. In the fifteen or so months that they had known each other Dillon had only seen David cry on a handful of occasions. As much as he said it was fine and healthy when Dillon was the one welling up or fighting back tears of frustration, David didn’t cry very often and Dillon doubted it would’ve happened now save for the fact that David was clearly exhausted beyond belief. He just hoped David wouldn’t feel embarrassed about it afterwards.

As he felt himself wobble on his feet Dillon worried he’d have to pull away before they both went crashing to the ground, but strong arms wrapped around his waist and he smiled sadly as David held him tight, his forehead still pressed in to the soft fabric of Dillon’s t-shirt, tears still wetting the fabric. He began to gently run his fingers through the mess of David’s hair, stroking his head and rubbing his scalp and realised, after a minute, that he’d begun to hum. It was the old lullaby that David had sung to him to help him out of a panic attack when they’d first met, on the night they’d first got together in fact, and Dillon tried to make his movements and voice as soothing as possible, buoyed by the happy memory. He liked to sing or hum to animals when he was working with them, it calmed most of the patients brought in to the veterinary surgery, and seemed to work equally well on boyfriends. He kept the movement of his hands steady as well, running them through the thick, black hair that he loved so much, and when David began to talk again he did his best to keep his breathing steady and to blink back the tears that were itching at his own eyes.

“She thought I had good news,” David said, his voice slightly muffled by Dillon’s stomach. “She honestly thought I had good news, and I couldn’t understand it. You met her, you saw how resigned she seemed and, god, she’s going through so much. I had no idea her legs were so weak but she was practically dragging herself around the flat, so I went in and made her a cup of tea and she thought...” he shuddered. “She’d received a phone call from Missing Persons, to say that there was evidence that Candice had got on a plane, based on purchases on a friend’s credit card. They told her that... that they had a lead they were checking in Queensland and that they were confident they would find her daughter. I don’t know how that sort of mix up could even happen but I... I had to tell her that they’d been wrong, and that Candice’s body had been found. It was like she just broke.”

“You stayed with her all night.”

It wasn’t really a question. Dillon was simply stating what he now understood had happened, and that he understood why. He’d met David when he’d called the police about a break-in and instead of a country cop turning up at his door it had been one Detective Sharma. Dillon could still remember the feeling of safety David had given him, staying longer than necessary to look over the crime scene, to ensure that Dillon was really alright, watching over him until the early hours and putting a blanket over him when he finally slept. He could imagine David doing the same for Helen and he was glad of it. No one should have to hear that their daughter had been murdered.

“I stayed with her all night,” David confirmed. “She fell asleep at about one and I got to reading a bit more of that book; Candice had a copy and she wrote some notes in it too. I guess I fell asleep around three. Got a call from Campbell just after five. I’m sorry I didn’t keep you in the loop. It was a rough night but I’m still so sorry, Dill.”

“No wonder you look like shit,” Dillon told him lovingly, bending to press a kiss to the thick, tangled, curls. “You need to sleep. I’m surprised you made it home in one piece. You could’ve killed yourself driving when you’re like this.”

David grunted. “You sound like Smith.” His arms tightened convulsively around Dillon’s waist in the wake of those words and seemed to catch them both by surprise. Dillon swayed and began to lose his balance again but David refused to let go and pulled Dillon in to his lap instead, keeping his arms wrapped tightly and nuzzling his head down against Dillon’s shoulder before he spoke again. “No time to sleep though. Work to do. Campbell wants me to work from here.”  
“Are you in trouble again?” Dillon asked, trying to make sure that his tone was light and that David understood he wasn’t in trouble with Dillon at least.

“Possibly,” David told him after a pause, and Dillon looked down at what he could see of the man’s face. 

David wasn’t telling him the whole truth but he wasn’t lying. A part of his brain wanted to push the issue and find out what was really going on. It was the same part that reminded him that he’d wanted to talk to David about how frightened and disappointed he’d been when David had failed to show up the night before, and hadn’t texted or called, and how hurt he’d felt when it had happened again a few hours later when David had given him no clue as to whether he was safe or alive or coming home. They were valid points but Dillon had no intention of bringing them up, not while David was practically dead on his feet anyway. And, he reminded himself, usually David texted him about everything. Yesterday had been an anomaly, and he’d had a good excuse.

“Come on, scarecrow,” he said, ruffling the man’s hair. “You can’t sleep here and I don’t care what your boss says. You’re a human, not a superhero, you need to sleep. Come on. I’ll even make you something good for lunch.” 

He untangled himself from David’s arms with difficulty but once they were both on their feet they managed to get up enough momentum to make it to the bedroom, where David fell, face down on the bed, and was asleep within a minute. Dillon considered joining him but knew that there were things to do first. There were pets to feed and emails to answer, and at least one phone call to make. Helen was his friend after all, even if they’d only met the once, and he needed to make sure she was alright.


	8. Chapter 8

Wet hands squeezed beneath the water, shaking badly now after such effort. He was not as young as he once was, and yet it needed to be done. Things were moving too quickly. The detective was getting too close; the loose ends needed to be cut away. And the desire, no, the need to follow the pattern - to kill - had been stronger than he’d ever felt before. He didn’t like doing this during the day. He had tried to go about things in a sedate, organised fashion, to plan it the way that old biddy Professor Harris had said a burial deserved, but he hadn’t managed it. She’d always been so pedantic about the importance of a warrior’s death fitting their life, the need for consistency and meaning. It was all rubbish of course, he saw that now, nonsense she filled her students heads with, and he felt a grim satisfaction that at least she couldn’t rabbit on about it any longer. The first time round he’d been determined to gain her approval somehow, with the clues he left and the detail he put in to each burial, but the approbation he was due had never come, and so, once he’d gotten his way he’d stopped. Even so, the Professor’s damning appraisal of his work - that the burials were completely wrong, that the boats, the clothes, the way the belongings were displayed, were all wrong, had continued to rankle. She shouldn’t have tried to get in touch, to push it all back in to the light again, talking in that superior way, as if she alone knew all of the answers. He’d showed her the error of her ways at least. Her frail, charred corpse had been laid to rest in a broken and rotting boat that she could only have despised. She had told him once that violence bred fear in a society, and fear bred only more violence. She had been so opposed to violence yet she’d spent her career studying it. Well now her body was food for the worms, a means of breeding fear and violence in others. It was fitting.

Thinking of the Professor made his hands clench tighter; she deserved the burial he’d given her, deserved to rot. But she hadn’t been left to rot at all, hadn’t been food for the worms, and that was the rub. All three of his beautiful mounds had been dug up, desecrated far too soon, and now he would need to find a new place to harbour the boats that remained, the souls he needed, and he would need to move fast before the threads began to unravel. In the original game the victims had been chosen at random, people he knew would never be missed, people he couldn’t be tied to, but this time it had been necessary to chose those who deserved a boat, those who knew too much and had forgotten to be scared and stay quiet. 

He looked down at the woman whose neck he still held between his hands, the view of their face distorted by the water. She looked different to how he remembered, but it had been twenty years after all and people changed, and the name was right. She had been so fierce back then, so sure the threats were nothing, that he wouldn’t follow through, until the day they’d sent word to the woman’s boss, and to several other newspapers, that their star journalist was a cross dressing queer. They’d smeared her with more, had torched her car and sent bricks through her windows, but it had been outing her filthy behaviour that had hit her hardest, and she’d sensibly disappeared.

Lifting the waterlogged body out of the pool he dragged his victim by the back of her shirt across the slate and in through her home. She was divorced with no children, no one would be looking for her any time soon, he’d made sure of that, so there was plenty of time to chose which items would accompany her in the boat, plenty of hours before nightfall when the search for a site would begin. He sighed happily as he looked down, feeling his body relax as it always did after a job well done. Still, that didn’t mean there was time to stand around admiring a drowned woman’s body. Madeline Magarey-Smith had a boat waiting for her and he had a job to get back to.

***

David groaned, hating how stiff his muscles felt, how dry and swollen his eyelids had become. He grabbed at his mobile, checking the time and jabbing at the screen to stop the buzzing that had woken him. He’d been asleep for nearly six hours and could smell something delicious cooking in the kitchen but couldn’t seem to make himself move just yet. He’d messed up badly last night, and he needed to think of how best to apologise and make things up to Dillon for forgetting to message him. Discovering the bodies had been important, he wouldn’t have been able to leave any earlier, but he should have remembered to phone Dillon, should have found some way to get him safely home instead of leaving him stranded. He’d been forced to get a lift home with Magarey and David really didn’t want Dillon associating with someone who was now officially a person of interest in a murder inquiry. He couldn’t stand the thought of Dillon getting involved in any more ugliness, or getting hurt again. He didn’t think his heart would take it.

He flicked through his emails on his phone as his body slowly woke up, frowning at the lack of reports from Smith or the forensics team before going straight for the replies from the profilers he’d contacted the night before. They all held shock at the thought of a serial killer reemerging after so long, and he read through their thoughts about how and why that should happen and how the reason for his return could inform their profile of him. They all suggested that the old case files were the place to start and David felt his heart sink as he remembered Smith’s announcement the night before, that the files and evidence boxes and photographs were all gone.

He sent off a quick message to Smith, asking him to track down the names of whoever had been responsible for the archives back in the day, the names of anyone who might have had the clearance and opportunity to remove the files from storage. It would likely be a long list, and there was a chance Smith would take it as a punishment, but David saw it as a test. He didn’t want to believe that Smith had been involved in the original killings in any way, but he couldn’t dismiss it. He hadn’t been around back then, he couldn’t say for sure what a young Tom Smith had been like and how his career had been effected by the Longboat Murders. Campbell wasn’t a pleasant man but he’d been around back then and David needed all the help he could get in understanding what had happened, especially if the first hand accounts were mysteriously unavailable to him. 

He would need to find and read through any relevant papers and books written by Professor Harris as well, and finish that damn book by Magarey too, but there just didn’t seem to be enough time to do it all. Not when he feared things were escalating. The first time round the mounds had been discovered one at a time, appearing every few months, but Candice had only been missing two weeks, and all three bodies had been buried close together, within a day of each other. The killer wasn’t wasting any time and seemed to be eliminating anyone with knowledge of the original murders before David had a chance to speak to them. He needed to wake up and start tracking down leads, but his brain still felt sluggish and slow and his back ached from sleeping first at Helen’s kitchen table, and then face down in the middle of the bed. 

He groaned as he closed his eyes against the light coming in through the curtains, focusing instead on the bright bird song coming from the back yard. A family of magpies had settled in the neighbour’s tree, in the branches that reached over and shaded their small yard and even though Dillon claimed he’d done little to encourage them they sat on the fence and the lowest branches each day, waiting for Dillon to appear with meat and veggie scraps. He’d asked if the magpies were a danger to the budgerigars but Dillon had just rolled his eyes and given David a kiss on the cheek, telling him not to worry, they were all too well fed and satisfied with their environments to have a go at each other. 

He let his mind wander, caught up in memories of Dillon’s smile, the gentle affection in his eyes, the way his proximity made David’s heart trip and swell. He loved Dillon so desperately - the way he moved so carefully, his propensity for empathy, the stubbornness that reared up to keep David in his lane when he felt his independence was being threatened. It was one of the things they argued about most often but David found it hard not to be overprotective, which made him feel all the worse that last night, when Dillon had been relying on him, he hadn’t been there. Dillon had been forced to get a lift home with a man who was practically a stranger, a man who David didn’t know and couldn’t trust and then instead of coming home or even calling him once he’d arrived at Helen’s, David had left his boyfriend to worry through the night. It was a miracle he’d been let in the door. 

He needed to make it up somehow, needed to think of something romantic, but his brain was still foggy from sleep and starting to pound from lack of caffeine. Only the sound of someone knocking on the door roused him properly but his body still complained as he tried to get up and he had to sit for several minutes with his head in his hands until the pounding in his skull faded enough for him to find and pull on his shoes.

By the time he padded down the short hallway to the lounge room he could hear voices and wondered who Dillon would have invited over, then stopped short at the sight of Helen standing shakily in the centre of the room, and the man beside her who David didn’t know. He automatically moved to Dillon’s side and tucked an arm around his waist but Dillon didn’t seem fussed and gave him soft smile as he leaned in to David’s touch.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he teased gently. “Sorry if, if, if we woke you. I was, um, just about to offer Helen and Mike some, um, some tea. D’you want a cup?”

Alarms started sounding in David’s mind and he looked up sharply at the man standing in his house, looking like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to issue a challenge or disappear in to the furniture. 

“Sorry, who are you?” he asked stonily, watching carefully as the former journalist cleared his throat and nodded. 

“Mike Magarey,” he replied, holding his hand out but David didn’t move forward. Even though he’d suspected it, it was still a shock to know that the man was in his house.

“You,” he said, shaking in shock, his body shifting further in to a defensive stance. Holding Dillon even more tightly than before. “You can’t be in my house. I need to ask you to leave.”

“What?” Dillon and Helen asked in unison but it was Dillon who pushed away to look at David accusingly. “You can’t kick someone out of my house, Love. It’s my house and he’s my friend!”

“Our house,” David urged quietly but Dillon only pursed his lips and glared at him. “And he can’t stay. He needs to go.”

Dillon looked shocked and angry, chin jutting forward in a way that David took as a warning, but he couldn’t back down. He turned instead to Mike, who only raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. 

“I’m here to help, mate,” he said softly. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions?” David snapped back. “The day after three bodies are discovered in a manner that you, Mr. Magarey, are an expert in?” He stopped when he heard Helen take a small, sobbing, breath but seeing her only fanned his suspicions even more. “And how do you even know Ms. Goodfellow? Did you track her down? That was quick work now, wasn’t it?” 

He couldn’t seem to stop himself from slipping in to his more formal interrogating tone as he watched them together but Mike smirked and David wanted to hit him for being so infuriating but pulled himself back. The last thing he needed was to be written up for assault; that would muddy the waters of this case even more. Helen however stepped forward as if ready to smack him up the side of the head for his denseness.

“Don’t be stupid,” she settled for instead, looking at David with bloodshot, puffy eyes. “We met this morning, at the university library. I was looking for anything I could find about this killer Candice had been studying and we ran in to each other. He recognised me because he noticed how... how similar Candice and I look. Looked.” She was shaking again, and looked so ready to cry that David had to force himself to step back and remember that she was grieving, and he had been the one to make the mistake of becoming her friend. He honestly hadn’t thought that he’d find himself in charge of a murder investigation in which Helen’s daughter was the victim. He’d made another mess of things and could see no way out without hurting her. “We found something we thought you’d want to know,” she continued, her voice hitching. “And you said I could come to you with anything. You said you’d help.”

“I-” David couldn’t think of what to say. All he could think of was how Helen really did look like her daughter, and how Candice had looked when he’d uncovered her body the previous evening. “I do want to help, Helen. I am doing what I need to do to help, I promise you. But Mr. Magarey is a different story,” he explained, feeling winded by the memory of Candice’s body, so small down in the dirt. “He’s a person of interest in Candice’s case. I can’t just have him over for a cup of tea. I should be taking him in for questioning right now.”

Mike’s lopsided grin in response only fueled his anger more and he couldn’t bear that the man was so at ease when all David could see were the bodies and the catalogues of injuries - Eleanor Harris burned almost beyond recognition, Philip Bingle’s face frozen in terror, Candice so young, stabbed and stowed in a freezer - and so he stalked over to the door and pulled it open. The man thought he was bluffing but David wasn’t in the mood and stared him in the eye until he had the decency to look wary again. 

“See now, I thought you were smarter than this,” Mike told him softly, angling his body away as if to make the conversation private, as if David could forget that Helen and Dillon were watching them. “You walked in to that Melbourne case a few months back and saw the murderer straight off, according to all reports.”

“Reporters lie,” David snapped back, hating himself for the comment and Mike for only smiling and nodding in agreement.

“True. They’ll bend the truth for the sake of a good story. But when those teenage girls started going missing you saw the truth of it in a minute and caught the fuckers behind it. I read your statement and you were calm and controlled and clear headed. You’re a bit of a savant is what I’ve heard, swooping in and solving things.”

David grunted. “I don’t think so. And it wasn’t just me. Policing’s a team effort, I had help.”

“And that’s exactly what I’m offering you now. This isn’t a simple case and I’m the closest you’ve got to an expert now.”

The man took a step forward and David felt his hackles rise. “You’re a civilian,” he snapped, crossing the room to block Mike’s path to the rest of the house, and to Dillon. “You’re a civilian and you have no right to information about this case or to come in to my home.” He was physically shaking as his mind conjured up scenes of Dillon being attacked inside their home, the one place he was supposed to be safe, just as he had been before, betrayed by the people who were supposed to be keeping him secure. “I really should take you in for questioning right now-”

“But you won’t,” Mike told him, quietly but forcefully, and before David could rebut Helen stepped forward, her hand raised as if to keep the two men separated. 

“You can’t,” she told him softly. “David. We did try to do the right thing. We did go to your office first, but you weren’t there.” 

“I’m working from home,” David told her absently, lowering his tone and feeling the uncomfortable beginnings of embarrassment tighten in his chest. “But you could’ve spoken to someone else or left a message.”

“They told us you were off the case,” Helen said bluntly. “Administrative leave the man said. They said I should go home and would be informed in due course of any news pertaining to the deceased.”

Her first words were a blow to his heart and he felt his gut tighten until he thought he might be sick but as Helen repeated the callous words of whoever she’d spoken to at the station he felt the fight go out of him. He never would have phrased it like that, never would have been so impersonal and callous. But it wasn’t up to him, apparently, because he was on administrative leave, apparently. Only no one had called him to say so and he’d been ordered not to call the office. It explained the lack of reports and why he’d had no emails but it was still a shock, and his head began to spin, and he was silently grateful when he heard the dull thud of the cane on the carpet and felt Dillon’s hand come to rest on his back, offering comfort as well as helping him remain upright.

He looked up at Helen and Mike but neither seemed inclined to speak any more and were staring at him warily. There was a chance that Campbell was only spreading the story around to lull their killer in to a false sense of security, especially if it was someone who still worked for the department, but surely Campbell would have told him if that was the case. The man always loved to phone him up to yell at him, surely he could have let him know if he was doing so, but David doubted it was a ruse. 

A compassionate man would also have told him if he was being put on leave but Campbell wasn’t the compassionate sort and David felt his anger slowly build again at the thought that he was being hushed up and his investigation smothered so that Campbell could either retire without its stain on his record, or with the glory of solving the thing himself. He wondered how the man intended to justify it, but was sure he would come up with something. David had made enough mistakes and blunders over the last year for Campbell to come up with something.

A tap at the door snapped him out of his spiraling self-pity but it was feeling Dillon jump where he stood behind him, his panicked gasp at realising that the door had been left open and that a stranger was entering their house, that finally got David moving again and he looked up sharply, ready to defend. He needn’t have worried. Adita, from the forensic team was standing in the open doorway hugging a large manilla folder to her chest and looking at him nervously, and David tried to relax his face in to a smile. When he’d seen her the day before she’d looked sensible and generic with her dark hair tied back in a plait and her clothes hidden under her blue forensics coveralls. The woman standing before him now looked completely different and as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight behind her he took in the frizzy hair loose about her shoulders, the oversized jumper and the flannel trousers that were very possibly pajamas. She looked exhausted and David ushered her quickly inside, even though it was a physical pain to step away from Dillon’s hand. 

“Adita, come in.”

He heard Dillon’s sigh of relief that it was someone he knew, and another as he bolted the door, but when he looked back across the room Dillon’s eyes were fixed on the wall like he was avoiding David’s gaze.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home, Inspector, it’s just-” David watched her hesitate, glancing around at the other people in the room. Her hands tightened around the papers in her hands and David guessed that whatever was in that folder was likely time and case sensitive, and that she didn’t want to discuss it with anyone but him.

“It’s alright, Adita,” he whispered breathily, clearing his throat in an attempt to regain some of his composure. “This is Helen and Michael, they’re... friends of ours. And this is Dillon, my partner.”

Adita nodded to each of them and grinned before turning back to David, looking a little more at ease. “I’m not supposed to be working today, it’s my day off, but when I called my boss to say I just needed to go through what I’d found with you he said that Campbell had made a statement, that the deaths were unrelated, and that there was to be no further action on the case until after the Coroner’s report. He said you’d been taken off the case, and that Detective Sergeant Smith was temporarily in charge because there’s no proof of homicide.”

“Yes, well,” David swallowed, feeling strangely numb and hating the added confirmation that he was indeed on leave and not running the case. “Smith’s a good man, I’m sure you can trust him to-”

“Actually that’s the thing, sir,” Adita interrupted. “What I wanted to talk to you about... It’s about D.S. Smith and, um... the missing archives.”

“That’s what we wanted to talk to you about as well!” Helen cut in. “All of Professor Harris’s papers and books are gone from the library. It’s all just gone but the librarian said it hadn’t been checked out. It’s all been taken. And don’t you look at me like that,” she told him, matching him glare for glare. “There’s nothing to stop you from talking to us, now that you’re not actually running the case.”

“There’s nothing I can do to help now that I’m not running the case!” David yelled, spinning to confront the shocked faces waiting for him, the anger building in time with his panic until he began to feel like he couldn’t breathe at all. “This isn’t some sort of cosy little Scooby gang. That’s not how this works! you don’t get to carry out your own investigation, you leave it to the professionals.”

“But the one professional I trust isn’t leading the investigation. He’s here!” Helen was close to tears again and grabbed at the pendant around her neck to steady herself. “I just want to help.”

David felt his headache getting worse. This wasn’t a situation he was used to dealing with and he didn’t like the feeling of not knowing what to do. “You maybe,” he conceded, “but him? He’s a journalist. I wouldn’t trust his motives an inch.”

Mike looked at him darkly. “I’m not a journalist any more,” he pointed out. “Haven’t been for nearly twenty years. I’m a cleaner now. I much prefer it.” 

David just glared back at him. The situation was spiraling too far out of his control and he wasn’t sure what to do to claw it back. He felt a hand touch his shoulder, Dillon attempting to calm him, but the movement just seemed to fuel his anger. 

“Why don’t you just, just, just hear what they have to say?” Dillon urged. “Before you, um, before you, you, um, start jumping to conclusions?”

“Because that’s not the way it works! We follow the law, Dillon, whether I’m the one in charge or not. And you, none of you, can get involved in this. This isn’t some trashy true crime novel encouraging you to speculate about ‘who dun it’. This is the real world. And in the real world people don’t just get put on administrative leave because their boss doesn’t like them, so I’ll sort it out. But you can’t be in on it. This is real, this is my job.”

“Hey now,” Mike began but David shot him a look and watched the man blanch before he turned back to focus on Dillon, who looked braced for a fight.

“David,” he said stubbornly, his own voice rising in volume. “Let’s just-”

“No! This is my job!” David felt his temper slip again but couldn’t seem to pull back. “You have to let me do it my way. There is a killer out there and it is my job to catch him. I don’t come in to your work, do I? I don’t waltz in and say, ‘that’s not how you hold a hamster’!” he gestured wildly. “Or, ‘that’s not how you make the tea’.” He looked up, saw the hurt written large on Dillon’s face, but couldn’t seem to stop. “I don’t butt in to your profession, so offer me the same courtesy. That goes for all three of you. This isn’t any of your concern.”

“She was my daughter!” Helen cried out, her body trembling, but when David reached out toward her she flinched back and he let his hand drop, his whole body suddenly too heavy and tired to do anything. “She was my daughter. How can I not be involved? If I hadn’t been involved you never would’ve bothered to look for her.”

“I know,” David sighed heavily, leaning against the wall as all of the energy he’d felt upon waking seemed to drain out of him. “But you can’t be involved in this, Helen, it’s too dangerous. I couldn’t bear for you to be hurt, or to be the next victim. This is my job,” he whispered softly, his lungs burning as if he’d been running hard. “You have to let me do my job.” No one jumped in to object this time and David nodded, trying to force his body back in to the character of competent, confident, detective as he glanced up at Helen’s tear stained face. “I need to speak with Adita now,” he said eventually. “So I think you and Mr. Magarey should go.”

“No,” Dillon said after a beat of silence and David turned in time to see him straighten his back and shoulders, his chin jutting out stubbornly as he prepared to fight. “You can’t, can’t, um, can’t kick my friends out of, of my house,” he stuttered defiantly. “This is my house. Only I can do that.”

“Our house,” David answered automatically, but his eyes slid away from Dillon’s pursed lips and furrowed brow, darting over the mantle and Dillon’s photographs on it, the paintings of animals and calming landscapes that hung on the walls, the furniture that Dillon had picked when he’d first moved in. The only things of David’s in the room were his coat flung over a chair and one lonely shoe poking out from under the sofa, and a horrible guilt began to creep up his throat that he simply couldn’t cope with. He wasn’t sure what he could say, how he could fix the situation, especially with an audience of near strangers, but he could feel the coldness radiating from his boyfriend’s slender form, and the deep hurt. “Love,” he whispered, daring to glance again at Dillon’s stubborn, achingly beautiful face. He had no idea what he could say, other than that he was sorry, but it didn’t matter because as he opened his mouth the phone rang, causing them all to jump, save for Trouble. The cat was eternally suspicious of him and had positioned himself defensively in front of Dillon’s feet. “Love,” he tried again but Dillon only sighed and altered his grip on his cane.

“You should, should answer the phone,” he said tiredly. “It’s probably important.”

“But-”

“Answer the, the, the phone and then talk to, um, Adita,” Dillon said more forcefully. “Do your job. I’m going to, to... I’m going to take Helen and Mike to the, the, um, kitchen. I’m going to... make the tea. When you’re done... you can both join us... or not. It’s, it’s, it’s up to you.”

He left the room silently, looking far more dignified than David felt, and Helen and Mike followed him. David allowed himself a few deep breaths before looking over at Adita, who looked like she’d never been more terrified in her life and was staring at him with eyes so wide she reminded David of an owl. He gave her an apologetic look but didn’t bother to speak. He strode across the room and snatched up the phone instead, hoping that whoever was on the other end of the line had good news and a way out of the mess he’d somehow landed in.

***

Stan Gallagher moved along the site, checking off the preparations for the new work set to begin. It was a huge contract, would do great things for his business, as long as nothing happened to cause a set back, which was exactly why he was giving everything a last minute double check. He’d had a call from the foreman at the other site that morning because there had been police crawling all over his site and interrogating his crew the night before, over several bodies that had been uncovered, but Stan had read the paper that morning and it looked like the bodies were old ones and that the investigation was a lot of fuss over nothing, just some junior detective getting ahead of himself. The archeology department at the university were being consulted, that’s what he’d read, and he pitied the crew that had to try and work around that sort of inconvenience.

He spat on the ground, shaking his head at such a state of affairs. Fancy detectives, and the article had suggested the bloke was foreign too, were a waste of money as far as he was concerned. The government had barely been prepared to accept his quotes for the damned overpass, asking him to cut costs until he’d explained that cheaper concrete would cost them more down the line, yet they had money to spare for detectives to run around making up cases for themselves and getting in the way of good honest work. But Stan wasn’t about to be caught out by any surprises hiding beneath the soil. When they’d done the ground work and cleared the site, weeks back, he’d had the whole area surveyed for anything that could cause an issue. There were no pipes, no cables, and no long forgotten graves on his site. But apparently, he realised as he looked over toward the row of diggers, the security left something to be desired. 

“Oi!” he yelled, jogging over toward the idiot who seemed to climbing in to the cab of one of his bobcats. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing? Get out of there before I call the cops!”

He’d spent years cultivating a tone that could not be argued with but the stranger, whoever they were, didn’t even flinch as they climbed in behind the controls and turned the key. Stan had no idea how the intruder had gotten that. All of the keys were kept in his office and he turned back toward the small building instinctively as he thought of it, his eyes widening at the sight of his door swinging on its hinges. He’d locked it before he’d done his final round of checks, he knew he had. He turned as he heard the bobcat trundle forward, the metal teeth on the front of the bucket, uses to rip through rock and tree roots, began to rotate. His eyes turned wide as he realised that it was being driven at speed and directly at him. He glanced about for an escape but the exits were all too far. The office, he decided. It would have to be the office. He could call for assistance from there at least.

He tried not to run, tried to seem unperturbed, but he knew how fast the damned things could move and could hear it getting closer and deep within him panic began to boil. He turned to look back, but caught the eye of the man chasing him in the process and felt his muscles seize at the twisted smile on the man’s face. He stumbled, his boot catching in the loose rubble and he hit the ground hard, scrambling to get his feet back under him and start running. 

It hurt to run, the old injury to his knee sending sharp pain up his leg as the sound of the bobcat grew louder in his ears. As he neared the office his knee collapsed under him completely and he fell with a harsh cry. He didn’t look up when the shadow fell across him and the intense burst of pain as the first of the metal teeth hit his back was the last thing he knew before his body was hit with the full force of the small but powerful vehicle. 

The killer reversed slowly, taking his time, smiling at what he saw. It wasn’t ideal, had not been part of the plan, but he couldn’t leave the man alive once he’d been seen. With any luck the man wouldn’t be missed and the act had certainly been satisfying even if it wasn’t the usual way he liked to do things. Vehicle deaths were messy, they’d never been his preference, but he could neaten things up later, when he had more time. He would need a place to stow the man now though, couldn’t leave him sprawled out on the dirt in such a state. He’d have to hose the whole area down as well, but that wouldn’t be a problem. The sun had set and he had the whole night to do as he pleased.


	9. Chapter 9

David lay on the bed, feeling strangely wired despite the heavy weight of exhaustion that was sitting on his chest and trying to smother him. It had been a long day and he’d said a lot of things that he knew he was likely to regret. Some things he regretted already. He could hear Dillon out in the kitchen, talking to the cat as he fed it and then the rush of water as he washed his hands. They needed to talk, he knew, but he just didn’t know how to start the conversation. Back when their relationship had first been blossoming, when it had all been based on flirting and secrets, it had been easier to be strong in front of Dillon and play the part but so much had happened since, and he now loved Dillon so deeply that on occasion it physically hurt, and he didn’t want to hide anything from him, no matter how difficult. That didn’t make it any easier to expose his own vulnerabilities of course, it only made him more determined to follow through with it.

It was particularly hard right now because he wasn’t really sure of what his feelings were. There were too many and the longer he lay staring at the ceiling the more there seemed to be and the more jumbled up they all felt. He needed to get up and walk out to the kitchen and actually talk to the man he loved like the grown-up he was supposed to be; he wanted to do it, he really did, he just couldn’t seem to make his body agree. 

At the sound of Dillon’s cane thudding gently as he came down the hallway David’s heart began to pound and he looked up just in time to see Dillon appear in the doorway. There was just the suggestion of a smile upon his lips and his hip was cocked invitingly as he leaned against the wall and looked at David through his long lashes. David’s hands itched to touch the man’s lithe form - his narrow hips, surprisingly broad shoulders, lightly muscled stomach, and strong arms - to hold him and feel him and bring him pleasure. But he didn’t want to send the man he loved so dearly into another panic attack, and he really did need to talk to him, rather than just stare at him hungrily, and he really did need to apologise.

“Hi,” he said with a smile, enjoying the slight blush that came to Dillon’s high cheekbones as he smiled and looked up through his eyelashes. “You alright?”

“Think so,” Dillon replied. “I just... I just needed to check the, um, the door. Twice. It’s locked.”

“Thanks.” Dillon seemed embarrassed, awkward, and it hurt to see him so, when it was David who should be feeling uncomfortable and apologetic, and so he sat up and patted the bed beside him, and was relieved when Dillon did actually come to sit beside him. “Look, Dillon, about today. I just need to explain that... I’m not angry at you. I’m angry about a lot of things but I’m not angry at you. And I’m sorry that I took my anger and frustration out on you. Especially in front of other people. I shouldn’t have asked Mike and Helen to leave. I shouldn’t have left the door open.”

“I...” Dillon swallowed and bit his lip as he thought over his words carefully, as if preparing to admit something terrible. “I have a tendency toward... toward isolating myself,” he stuttered, struggling to get the words out, as if his lips didn’t want to let them go. He smiled shakily. “And let’s, let’s face it, you’re a, a, a bit of an enabler.” David frowned but didn’t argue. Dillon had arched an eyebrow as if daring David to say it wasn’t so even when they both knew it was true and he wasn’t about to rise to it. “But I’m... I am trying to get back out in the world. I’m trying to, to, to, um, make friends. I can’t have you, um, scaring them all off.”

“I know,” David said in a rush, reaching out to take Dillon’s hand. “I know, Love, and I am so proud of you for it. I think you’re doing brilliantly. And I am so, so sorry about everything that happened today.” He felt himself begin to shiver but tried to push on through it. Apologising was never easy but was definitely necessary, especially when he’d put Dillon through so much. “I know I messed up and I made you feel bad and got caught up in my own problems and-”

“No,” Dillon told him gently, removing his hand from David’s grasp so that he could bring it to rest on David’s cheek instead. “No, you’ve had a... a shocker. I’m so sorry. You’re, you’re good at your job and, and, and those dicks have no, um, no right to, to treat you like that. D’you know what you’re going to do?”

David shook his head. He’d had a call from payroll to inform him of what percentage of his wage he would be receiving whilst on leave, which was the final confirmation that he was definitely off the case. He’d attempted to call Campbell but the call had been declined, not just ignored but declined, which meant that Campbell really didn’t want to talk to him.

“There’s nothing I can do. I don’t know what’s going on yet, I don’t know what Campbell’s game is, but it just makes it more important for you to stay well away from anything to do with the Longboat Murders. I don’t even like the idea of you knowing about any of it.” Dillon huffed but he didn’t look cross exactly, he was just looking at David with his head cocked to the side, like he was really trying to understand. “Please, Dill?”

“I can... I can look after myself, Love,” Dillon told him. “I can decide what I, what I, I want to read, and hear about and, and, and know about. I can.”

“I know,” David promised. “Even if I’d prefer to keep you bundled up in bed at all times, I know you can look out for yourself. But this situation is just too dangerous and so until I get it all sorted out, or at least come up with a suspect list,” he paused, knowing he was about to start another argument. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t spend time alone with Mike Magarey, okay?”

Dillon’s body stilled, his hand frozen on David’s cheek, and he looked up in to Dillon’s large dark eyes, noting the wariness, and what he desperately hoped wasn’t disappointment.

“I don’t... I don’t like controlling men, Love. You know that. And I, um, I don’t like being told what to do.” David nodded, relieved that Dillon was at least still talking to him and hadn’t stormed away. David didn’t think he could manage an argument that required him to get up from the bed. “And, and, and the rest of the world keeps telling me I need to, um, to get out and, and, and start making friends. But...” he swallowed, frowning as he always did when his words refused to come out easily. “But I trust you. Last time I... last time I, um, ignored your advice I, I, I, I regretted it. But you need to promise to be there to, um, to pick me up next time I have a late shift. Okay?”

David nodded again, fighting back the tears that were threatening to fall. He didn’t trust himself to speak and so opened his arms carefully, silently asking, and felt his breath rush out of him when Dillon leant in and hugged him tight. Holding him felt so good, the feel of his shoulders, his lean muscle, his strong arms, the gentle patterns his hands were making as they moved, all of it calmed David better than anything else could. He tried to remain passive, not wanting Dillon to panic and pull away, but couldn’t ignore how wonderful it felt to rest his head against the crook of his boyfriend’s neck. 

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered desperately, hating himself for the way Dillon’s body stilled again before he let out a breath and angled his jaw in David’s direction.

“Alright.”

David hadn’t expected to be granted permission and for a moment he couldn’t bring himself to move. He could sense how fragile the moment was between them and as he gathered his courage he could feel Dillon beginning to shiver. He didn’t want Dillon to regret his decision and so, as gently as he could, he pressed a kiss to the pale expanse of his boyfriend’s throat. Dillon shivered violently then but didn’t pull away and so David continued, keeping his touch light as he moved his lips up Dillon’s neck to his ear.

“I love you,” he whispered and felt a rush of joy when Dillon’s arms tightened around him and his face angled down, sliding his nose against David’s as his stuttered breaths hit David’s lips. 

“David,” came Dillon’s breathy reply, so desperate, so beautifully needy, and David couldn’t hold back any longer, pressing their lips together gently, pouring his love in to the kiss. “David,” Dillon gasped when their lips finally parted, tangling his hands in David’s thick curls as he pressed their foreheads hard together. “I don’t... I don’t...”

“It’s alright,” David told him, peppering the plump lips with delicate kisses, keeping his hands on Dillon’s back despite the aching need to explore further. “We don’t have to do anything else. I just want to kiss you. Please?”

He guided Dillon down until he was lying among the pillows, continuing to kiss him with the greatest reverence until his breath was burning. He wanted to do more, so much more, especially as Dillon’s hips had begun to move in slow circles. But when his hand strayed down to those enticing hip bones, his fingers brushing against the skin that had been revealed between t-shirt and track pants, the man beneath him stilled, his eyes fearful and each breath a short, sharp gasp. 

David moved his hand, rolling away until there was a space between their bodies and Dillon wouldn’t feel threatened. It broke his heart, as it always did, but he closed his eyes and fought it, taking a minute calming his own breathing, and raging need. 

“I’m sorry,” Dillon whimpered but David shook his head.

“It’s okay. I’m exhausted anyway. I don’t think I can even get my own pants off, let alone yours. Will you forgive me if I ask for a raincheck?”

He shuffled down the bed a little and looked up, trying to use what Dillon had more than once referred to his ‘puppy dog eyes’ as he met Dillon’s gaze. He bit his lower lip for good measure and was rewarded with an amused snort which successfully broke the tension. When a small smile blossomed on those full, kiss-plump lips David decided that no matter what they were going through, whatever demons they were facing, they would be alright.

“I guess I can... I can allow that,” Dillon told him huskily. “As long as it’s just a, um, a raincheck and not, not a... permanent state of affairs. Deal?”

“Deal,” David agreed, holding out his hand like it was a pact that needed to be sealed. When Dillon took his hand but brought it up to his lips instead, kissing David’s knuckles tenderly, David felt overwhelmed with affection, but also unbearably tired.

He groaned as he rolled away to struggle out of his clothes, further heartened by Dillon’s breathy laugh, and rolled back for one final kiss before switching off the light. It would all work out, he told himself. He’d work things out with Dillon, with his boss, with the sorry mess that was the Longboat Killer. He just needed a decent sleep and everything would be alright.

***

Jacob Toolin gasped, clawing weakly at the weight above him as his lungs failed to draw in breath. The pain had receded from sharp and all encompassing to a thudding in his blood and a tiredness beyond anything he’d ever thought possible. He could move his fingers, just, but no more. He was dying, he just wasn’t sure why.

He’d been quite excited to receive a call from his old uni friend asking for his help with some research. There were few enough of their old class left now, or left in Adelaide at least, and Jacob had foreseen an evening of reminiscing and interesting conversation. It had been at least ten years since they’d seen each other and he’d spent more than he aught to on the bottle of red wine but that probably didn’t matter now. The research project had sounded intriguing and he’d pulled out all of the papers he could find in preparation, to be helpful, to be friendly. He didn’t have many friends, had never developed the skill no matter how many books he read or notes he took on the subject. He’d never been brave enough, that was the problem. He’d never been brave enough to go out and try to find what would make him happy. People were difficult but now, when it was ending, he wished he’d spent more of his life outside, witnessing more of the world, and at least trying to learn how to understand others.

He stared hazily at the feet walking toward him, black shoes that were old and in need of replacing, the same as his own. He tried to move his feet but there was nothing, and the sickening thud in his veins grew louder, the pain dripping back in to him until he felt tears dripping from his eyes and down in to his ears. He watched the scuff-marked shoes walk over to the table, to the papers he’d gathered and put in to piles according to date and subject. He’d wanted to be helpful. He didn’t want to be helpful anymore.

The bookcase above him creaked but it seemed far off, suddenly unimportant, and Jacob let his mind drift away from the questions and concerns that had troubled him a few minutes ago. Questions like why it had happened, and why to him, and who that man was really, and what did he want with Jacob’s research? Such questions seemed unimportant when he could no longer feel even his fingers. He did stop to wonder how it was that he could feel nothing of his body yet could feel the pain radiating through it but his mind refused to focus on the words, and his eyes refused to focus on anything other than the feet moving toward him. 

He saw them stop, saw one disappear, and then felt a shuddering pain rush through him as the weight atop his chest increased. The room swam out of focus, dimmed, though he would have sworn he hadn’t closed his eyes, and he wondered when he’d last taken a breath, and why that no longer seemed to matter. And then, through the fog that had taken over either the archive room, or his eyes, he heard the voice, and wished he had not.

“Oh, Jacob, we really did leave it too long for a catch up this time, didn’t we? But it’s nearly over now, I promise, and you have been so helpful.”

Jacob felt good about that, that he’d been able to be of some use. He tried to say so but the last of the light began to fade and the pain and throbbing heat with it, and Jacob Toolin faded too until a moment later he was gone and his body lay beneath his books.

***

“Look, Sharma,” Smith sighed, the frustration obvious in his tone. “I can’t tell you anything more, you know how this works. I could get in to serious trouble just meeting with you like this, you know that as well as I do.” 

David let out a harsh breath as he threw himself back in his chair, glaring out at the grey afternoon. He hated that Smith was right, hated that he was reduced to begging his friend for information, hated that he wasn’t the one running the case. Not that he was jealous of Tom. Campbell was treating him like a figurehead, pushing him to make a public statement that the bodies were not related to any on-going murder investigation and, according to Smith, had been working him around the clock, looking in to retired cops and archivists.

“Did you at least talk to Adita Sarin like I asked?” David muttered, folding his arms and hating himself for sounding and looking so much like a disgruntled teenager. “She said there were inconsistencies.”

That, of course, was an understatement. Adita had found a hair, frozen to the sole of Candice’s shoe, that couldn’t be accounted for. She’d also discovered that the Longboat files had last been viewed by one Detective Sergeant Tom Smith, and even though the date was from a decade ago, it couldn’t be ignored that the last person to physically put their eyes on the now missing files, witness reports, and physical evidence, was the man in charge of the investigation. 

“I did,” Smith responded simply, refusing to meet David’s level of antagonism. “And I’ll tell you what I told her. I have never been to look at those files, not since they were put to bed when you two were still kids playing hop scotch. I had no reason to go looking for them and I have no idea why my signature is on the archives record. All I know is that it wasn’t me.”

“But you have to admit it looks bad,” David pushed, watching his friend for any tell, any sign of his true feelings on the matter, but Smith looked as unflappable as ever. 

“Of course it looks bad,” Smith shot back, staring out of the grimy cafe window. “She showed me my signature on a document I have no memory of signing. I nearly shat myself.” He tutted at his own bad language and David bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. There really was nothing to smile about. “I went straight to Campbell with it. I was ready to be thrown off the case and stuck on administrative leave but he just said he’d look in to it. Well, he didn’t just say that. He also grilled me about my part in the original investigation. Insinuated that I may have born a grudge because my career stalled.”

He snorted but David just pursed his lips. He seemed annoyed and David’s curiosity got the better of him. “He mentioned the same to me,” he admitted. “The morning after we found the bodies, when he told me to lay low. He said you’d just made detective when the Longboat Murders wound down, said the whole thing might have hurt your career.”

He left a pause, watched Smith’s mouth become a thin line as he took a deep breath through his nose and crossed his powerful, thick arms over his chest, like he was trying desperately to hold himself together. “My wife gave birth to our Sally that year,” he said eventually, and David felt his stomach lurch, as if the ground beneath them had dipped. “I wasn’t interested in moving up the ranks, Sharma, not when I had three kids and the youngest had Down Syndrome. I was honest with my superiors about my situation and my need to be there for my family as much as possible. I only took the promotion to sergeant last year because Sally’s in her twenties now and can look after herself. She’s at TAFE now, studying art. You’ve met her. She’s a confident, beautiful young woman, but back when she was little, and we had no idea what to expect and experts were always giving us the worst case scenarios, I had no interest in taking on more responsibility at work. The Longboat Murders didn’t wreck my career, Sharma.” He let out another snort and David felt suitably scolded by the fire in the man’s gaze. “I told Campbell of course but I don’t think he was convinced. He said he’d have to pass on the ‘evidence’ of my interference with archived evidence to internal affairs. Then he set me the task of looking in to every officer who worked in the archives department between ten and twenty years ago. One more thing goes wrong on this case and he’ll throw me to the dogs. I would have preferred paid leave if I’m honest.”

“Don’t say that,” David told him darkly, slouching down further in to his chair. “It’s only been a week and I think I’m already going insane. I’ve written three months worth of lectures and the end of semester exam. I’m bored out of my skull. Dillon offered to teach me to cook but gave up when I started swearing at the potato peeler for cutting me. I’ve been on so many runs, just to get out of the house, I could run a marathon without breaking a sweat. I am not good at time off, Tom.” He sighed, noting the concern in Smith’s face. They rarely used first names, it was always Smith and Sharma between them, but David was at his wits end and his ability to hide his emotions seemed to have disappeared along with his confidence at the days dragged on and no word came as to when he’d be allowed back to work. 

“It’ll be over soon,” Smith told him gently, his eyes flickering to the other occupants of the small cafe before focusing back on David. “Word is that HR intend to end your leave and that several departmental heads are out for blood over the whole thing. Everyone knows Campbell was out of line. The way he treats you is no secret, Sharma. You’re not without friends.” David looked away. He wanted it to be true but somehow couldn’t imagine Campbell letting him anywhere near the case and eventually said so. Smith only shrugged, but by the way he stared back at David, there was more to tell. “Campbell’s back in Canberra. They think they now have proof that he was siphoning funds. God knows where to, but they think they’ve finally got proof. And you didn’t hear this from me,” he continued in a low tone, forcing David to sit forward just to hear him. “But he made an arrest last night. I don’t know who did the interview with him, I’m stuck pushing paper until this mess with my signature is sorted, but they definitely brought someone in.”

David grinned. “You shouldn’t be telling me that.”

“No, I shouldn’t,” Smith agreed, hiding his own grin behind his coffee cup. “But Campbell’s much more likely to agree to your return if he’s stitched that old case up, and you looked like you needed a bit of hope in your heart. But you didn’t hear it from me, alright?”

David nodded and had to admit, he did feel better for knowing. It was frustrating to have missed such an interesting case but at least he could return to a fresh start, and with any luck Campbell would be out of the way sooner than expected if the fraud charges stuck. The sound of Smith’s mobile chiming roused him from his thoughts and he watched as the man’s face turned from blank to a slight frown and then to deeply troubled. It took a lot to make Smith’s face do that.

“What was that about?” he asked as soon as the call finished, ignoring the glare Smith sent his way.

“You’re supposed to be on leave, take a day off,” was the rather gruff reply but David wasn’t put off. If it had been something trivial Smith would have given him a proper answer, even if it was only a vague one, but no answer at all meant it was something serious, and likely connected to the current case. 

“I’m no good at time off, remember? And that looked serious.”

Smith grunted, picked up his coffee cup, saw it was empty and put it back down on the saucer with a clatter. “It was. And I can’t tell you. I’m in enough trouble as it is. Let’s just say that the suspect Campbell brought in appears to have an alibi for last week. As in, he spent the night at the Hindley Street station on a charge of drunk and disorderly. Which doesn’t sound much like our killer to me,” he sighed. “I’d better get going. I was supposed to stop off at the city library to check out the old papers they’ve got there, since our copies of everything pertaining to the old killings seems to have gone walk-about, but I might have to head back to the station instead. What time’s your meeting with HR?”

David checked his watch. “One hour. Shall I walk with you or would that look too suspicious?”

“Finish your coffee,” Smith growled at him, shaking his head at David’s half grin. “It might make you more polite, which could get you back to work sooner, which would be good for all of us. I need to make a few phone calls on my way, ones which I really can’t have your detective ears listening in on.” He stood up, staring down at David somberly, but with no real malice in his expression. He held out his hand for David to shake and gave him a further pat on the back as he walked past on his way to the exit. “Good luck this afternoon, Sharma. You deserve to be back at the helm of this and I can’t wait to dump all of the frustrating, contradictory evidence on you. God knows I’m ready to wash my hands of it all. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” David nodded, slouching back down as he watched the older man leave the cafe. 

It was reassuring to know that there was a reason why Smith had been in no hurry for a promotion all those years ago, that the part he had played in the investigation had been minimal, but he’d had no explanation for his signature being on those papers, didn’t seem to be trying to track down the missing files, or any current leads, only ones tied to the old murders, which had to be considered suspicious. It made him feel uncomfortable, soiled for letting his mind turn on his friends, but David knew that no matter how much he wanted to believe that Smith couldn’t possibly be involved, he couldn’t let go of the suspicion until the issue of the signature was resolved, whether he liked it or not. 

He finished his coffee slowly even though it was cheap and bitter and he didn’t really want it, simply buying time so that he wouldn’t accidentally catch up with Smith when he made his way in to the station. The urge to check his phone was strong, or rather the urge to check up on Dillon, but he was doing his best to step back and not become so overbearing that Dillon pushed him away. He hadn’t been great company lately, he was all too aware, and Dillon had been exceedingly patient, but David knew he had to make things up somehow. He had come close to calling his sisters twice, to ask their advice on the matter, but hadn’t been able to go through with it, hadn’t been able to face both their glee and their gentle mocking. He wanted to do something truly special for Dillon but short of buying him another pet he wasn’t sure how to go about it.

Dillon on the other hand seemed to know exactly what to do when it came to gifts and loving gestures. He’d mastered so many of David’s favourite Indian dishes, bought him interesting ties and coffee mugs to replace the ones David lost and left in the back of his car, smiled at him like he was something beautiful and worth looking at, and kissed him so tenderly that it made David’s head spin, but David had no idea what to do for him. He reached in to his pocket, almost without thought, and brought out the black ring box, turning it over and over in his fingers, wondering what he could possibly say to Dillon that would convince him to say yes to a proposal. That would certainly count as a gesture of love, he was sure of that, but the niggling doubt in the back of him mind that they weren’t ready kept stopping him from actually broaching the subject. 

David had only just moved in after all, so perhaps it would be better to wait until they had settled in and gotten more comfortable with one another before attempting to move things on to another level; and then there was the intimacy issue. David had tried to tell himself over and over that he didn’t mind that they hadn’t made it beyond the point of kissing but had to admit that Dillon’s response to being physically intimate did worry him. Possibly because he’d known Dillon before the kidnapping and so knew that he hadn’t always been so terrified of being touched, or of showing his scars, even if he had been reluctant to let David see them the first time. Back when they’d met Dillon had already been through one traumatic event, he already had the replant scar around his shin where his ankle and foot had been reattached, and scars on his hip, but had still been so receptive and physically affectionate. Now he wouldn’t even allow David to see his legs and flew in to a panic whenever he was touched below the waist. David just wanted to show his adoration and to make Dillon feel good, but so far they hadn’t managed it and he was starting to lose hope, just as he was starting to lose any hope of being reinstated in time to catch the Longboat Killer before he decided to kill anyone else. 

There wasn’t a lot he could do about catching a murderer, not until after he’d had his evaluation with Human Resources in any case, but there was one thing he could do right at that moment, instead of just sulking in a subpar cafe. He put the ring box away carefully in his pocket and took out his phone instead, typing a message to his sisters quickly, before he had a chance to chicken out a third time.

‘Hey. How would you prove your undying affection for someone without it being creepy? Something romantic. He learnt how to make Haleem. Best I’ve ever eaten. I want to do something to show him how much I love him. Please don’t take the piss, I genuinely need your help here.’

He reread the message after sending it, hoping there was enough in there to let his sisters know that he was feeling too vulnerable to cope with their teasing and really did need their help. They had spent years trying to get him a boyfriend, had set him up with half of Sydney, or so it seemed to David, and had been ridiculously excited to learn about Dillon. It had only been David’s insistence that Dillon would definitely not enjoy David’s family descending on him when he was fresh out of the hospital and still jumping at shadows that had stopped them from coming to Adelaide when David transferred but it wasn’t just Dillon he was protecting. David loved his family but they could be a little full on, and as he stared at the three dots that indicated that his oldest sister, Fatima had read his message and was sending her reply, he began to regret asking his family for advice.

‘He made Haleem? Marry him! Seriously! Hold on to that man and never let him go.’

David closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could always throw his phone in the river and run away to some distant sea-side town, with Dillon, obviously. But before he could contemplate his new life, his phone buzzed again as his other sister joined in.

‘Agreed! Marry Him!!’

David groaned quietly and gulped down the dregs of his coffee with a grimace as he sent a hurried reply, suddenly desperate to be moving. 

‘Trying NOT to seem creepy here ladies. I need some way to show him I love him Before I propose. Help?!’

He shrugged on his jacket and hurried out on to the street but his phone kept on beeping and eventually he was forced to stop and read back over their responses and various outlandish suggestions so that he didn’t trip over his own feet. 

‘I’m not organising fireworks,’ he texted back to them. ‘He jumps out of his skin when he hears doors slam. Fireworks would give him a heart attack. Heart attacks are not romantic.’

‘MARRY HIM!’

David huffed and let his head fall back against the wall of the bus shelter he’d stopped by. He wanted to marry Dillon, that wasn’t the problem, but he couldn’t go from being a grump and absolute nightmare to live with, and failed several failed attempts at wooing, to a marriage proposal. He needed to know that Dillon would welcome that sort of move before he just sprang it on him, and he wasn’t sure how people went about having that conversation.

‘I want to!’ he typed, hitting the screen harder than he needed to, wishing he had called so that he would at least be able to yell at them that he really did want to, which would be so much more satisfying than just trying to strangle his phone. ‘But not tonight! What can I do tonight?’

He put his phone in his pocket and set off in the direction of the City Central Station, trying to focus on the meeting he was about to head in to rather than the man he wanted to show his love to, or his two over-excited sisters who seemed to be sending him a new message every thirty seconds. He’d check what they had to say once his evaluation with HR was over. Hopefully he’d be able to sift through their suggestions for something sensible he could do to show Dillon just how much he loved him.


	10. Chapter 10

Dillon stretched his back with a grimace. He needed a break but they were understaffed and there was too much to do; there had no time for lunch let alone a chance to sit down and his spine, hip, and leg were aching horribly. He’d been daydreaming about crawling in to bed and not moving for at least twenty-four hours but there was still an hour left of his shift and, if he wanted to be honest, he didn’t particularly want to go home. David had been on administrative leave for a week and if he’d been bored with his small city life before, then he was going out of his mind now. He’d argued with Sergeant Smith over whether he could have any information about the killings, had banged about the house until Trouble had hissed at him, and had then taken over their small second bedroom and filled it with the files and reports he had been able to get his hands on. Dillon knew he’d come up with several theories because David mumbled in his sleep when he was particularly stressed, but he’d refused to ask about it, and David hadn’t offered anything. He just looked more unsettled with each passing day and took longer and longer runs to avoid the house. 

Even his job at the university had afforded no relief, no matter how much Dillon had wished it would. News of the deaths had spread around the campus within days and David’s hours had been consumed with comforting both staff and students and attending memorial services for Candice and Professor Harris. It had all left David emotionally drained and on edge; and no amount of fancy desserts or delicious breakfasts had been able to break David free from whatever emotional hell he was putting himself through.

He was due to pick Dillon up from work after his meeting with Human Resources and Dillon really hoped he’d have some good news to share. Campbell was out of the state again, answering questions about misplaced funds, which at least meant David would be able to speak his case without interference and hopefully be allowed back to work. Campbell had claimed that David had gone against direct orders, had behaved recklessly and at risk to the public, had entered private property illegally, and a work site without a warrant. Calling it a mess was an understatement but Dillon wasn’t quite sure what else to call it, and he hated the way it was chipping away at David’s confidence. He knew how that felt but didn’t know how to let David know that he wasn’t alone and didn’t have to suffer it silently. He just couldn’t get the words out.

He closed his eyes as a wave of tiredness washed over him, gripping his cane shakily. He hadn’t been sleeping well and his physiotherapist had warned him, again, that he was pushing his body too hard, and that he needed to stop trying to ignore his body, or his scars. She’d suggested that he spend time alone with his scars, looking at them and seeing how insignificant they were, how superficial, but Dillon wasn’t sure he could do that. He couldn’t even look at them when he was showering but she insisted that it could help, and that if he could come to terms with the marks on his body he might finally be able to let David see them too. 

Things hadn’t really progressed between them in the last seven days, though there had been a lot more kissing which was nice, but David seemed to have decided that any moves toward intimacy should be instigated by Dillon, which was very kind, but also absolutely terrifying. He knew that David was doing it to put Dillon at his ease but it was having the opposite effect and David’s frustration over his job made Dillon wish he was able to just pull the man in to bed and distract him for a few hours. He took a careful breath as his brain provided him with half a dozen scenarios for ways he could help David relieve some tension without taking his jeans off. He tightened his grip on his cane again and took in an unsteady breath. He needed to get himself back under control because his work scrubs hid absolutely nothing and the shelter was still open for another hour.

One of the only jobs left on his list before his final check of the kennels was to follow up on the last of the animals who had been brought to the shelter as strays but who had valid microchips. It was usually a pleasant job and he’d made several calls earlier in the day to relieved pet owners who’d all organised to come in and pick up their cats and dogs at once, but there was one he hadn’t been able to get in touch with and needed to call back before he filed the day’s paperwork and closed up for the evening. 

He looked down at the print-out his boss had handed him that morning and chewed on his lower lip, unsure how to cope with the name before him. He’d tried to call the woman every day for nearly a week but there had been no reply and he wasn’t sure what he should do next. He wasn’t keen on phone calls generally because people tended to get frustrated with how he spoke, though he did genuinely want to talk to a woman who had named her cat Bacon Thief, but her name troubled him in a way her pet’s name never could. 

He looked up as the door swung open and his anxiety spiked as Mike walked in, lugging his cleaning kit behind him and offering a tight-lipped smile. Dillon had done his best not to be alone in Mike’s company but it wasn’t easy when his shift coincided with Mike arriving to clean in the evening. He hadn’t told Mike that David had asked him to be careful, but he could see in the man’s face that he knew, and that he was hurt. David had heard what Mike had to say about the killings, and that he and Helen had discovered that all of the newspapers from the time of the Longboat Murders were missing from the university library along with all of Professor Harris’s books and published papers, but he’d refused to engage in any sort of discussion as to why that might be. 

Mike believed that there was a stronger link between the killer and Professor Harris than just the fact that she’d been asked to offer her opinion on the burial sites but the only proof he had was how furious the whole situation had made Eleanor at the time and the missing books and when David had pointed out that the books and papers could still be accessed on line or in any other library the conversation had ended. Neither man had access to any new information about the case and David had warned them all of the danger of speculation. He’d refused to engage in any further discussion of the case, looking away from Helen’s accusing stare with a shame that broke Dillon’s heart. 

Dillon’s highlight of that day had been serving them all lunch. It had been so long since he’d had the opportunity and seeing and hearing people enjoying his cooking had felt ridiculously good. The woman from Dillon’s team, Adita, had been particularly impressed by Dillon’s ability to make a traditional curry so he’d sent her home with the leftovers because she looked like she came from the David Sharma school of healthy eating and probably lived on frozen ready meals. He wasn’t sure what she’d discussed with David, and while he was curious he didn’t actually want any crime scene details. David had been right to tell him to keep out of it, though he hated to admit it. It had been interesting at first but Mike had been right too when he’d said it was a nasty business, and the damage the whole affair was doing to David’s career was frightening. Dillon worried that if the HR hearing didn’t go well David would chuck it all in and move back to Sydney.

The door swinging shut brought him back to himself with a jolt and he tried to give Mike a friendlier smile. The Longboat Murders were a mystery he couldn’t touch, but he did need to sort out the mystery on the paper right in front of him.

“Hey, Mike,” he said, the words coming out breathier than he wanted. “How... how are you?”

“I’m well,” Mike told him, his face softening as he approached. “And Helen sends her love. Chip’s assigned himself her body guard.” The smile he gave at that news was far more genuine and Dillon thought it was a wonderful thing that Mike and Helen had become friends, and that the little mutt who’s future had seemed so uncertain now had two people doting on him instead of one. “I swear he loves her more than me, the little traitor. I’m just the one feeding him,” he snorted. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Dillon lied. He had no desire to explain how badly he’d been sleeping, or how worried he was about David. “But, um, speaking of, of, of animals with, um, food based names,” Mike smiled wider at that and walked forward to lean against the counter but Dillon couldn’t match it. “I’ve got, um, a little, a little mystery to solve. We’ve got a, a, a, a cat named Bacon Thief. I can’t get in touch with her owner. Her, her, her owner’s name is, um, is Magarey-Smith. Um. Madeline Magarey-Smith. I wondered if, um, if, um, she was... a relative?”

He regretted asking as soon as he saw how pale Mike turned at the mention of his dead name but when he tried to apologise, tripping over his words like always, his own cheeks turning a horrible hot red, Mike brushed the words away with a shake of his hand. “It’s alright, it’s alright. Just breathe for me, mate,” he told Dillon softly. “ It’s alright. It’s just always a bit uncomfortable, hearing that name, but I’m a big boy, I can handle it. But I do need you to calm down and breathe, okay? I don’t want to get a bollocking from your boyfriend for giving you a panic attack.”

As if on cue David walked in to the shelter and Dillon jumped back as if he’d been caught cheating, his entire face turning hot and each breath coming out with increasing difficulty. Hearing the door and noticing the change in Dillon’s manner Mike turned and Dillon fancied the frown he saw on David’s face probably matched Mike’s. He tried to reassure himself that he hadn’t actually done anything wrong, and that interacting with someone he worked with was sort of inevitable, and that he’d made his promise to David back when they’d both believed that it would only be for a day or two, rather a week, or indefinitely. 

“Are you okay?” David asked, walking swiftly forward, his frown deepening when Mike stepped out of the way with his hands raised.

“I’m fine,” Dillon tried to tell him, but could see that David wasn’t buying it.

“He was just asking me about a pet that’s come through,” Mike offered. “It belonged to a Magarey but I don’t know her. There’s a lot of us,” he shrugged when David gave him another glare before he slipped behind the counter to run his hand carefully across Dillon’s shoulders. Mike on the other hand turned back to talk directly to Dillon and he appreciated that he was trying to distract him. “I’m not in touch with anyone in the family. Do you know where the cat was found?”

“Prospect,” Dillon offered, relaxing back against David’s hand, enjoying the warmth of his palm and the gentle, circling motion. “A family, um, brought it in. They um, they, they thought it belonged to, to, to a neighbour but... but hadn’t seen her for a while and, and, and the cat kept sneaking in to, um, to their house so...”

“I can ask someone to swing by her house if you like?” David rumbled slowly, stepping closer to press his forehead to the back of Dillon’s shoulder. “Well, I can ask Smith to ask. I can ask myself in approximately twelve hours. What’s the name of the woman?”

“Madeline Magarey-Smith,” Mike answered quickly, “but I don’t know her.”

“I’ll look in to it.”

Dillon heard the shift in David’s tone, and turned to face him, seeing the gentle sympathy transform his face. But something else he’d heard had caught his attention as well and he pressed his hand to David’s chest hopefully. “You’re going back to work?”

“Yep,” David grinned. “HR weren’t impressed with Campbell’s claims and the head of Serious Crime wasn’t happy that Campbell had handed my case to one of theirs, and accounting are run off their feet with this Canberra enquiry and the funds that have gone missing, which Campbell is apparently very much involved in.” He grinned triumphantly, a fire burning in his eyes that Dillon hadn’t seen in a while, and he felt a smile begin to spread across his own lips. “So it’s one last night of freedom and then it’s back to the grind. Campbell’s going to lose his nut. I thought it was a good excuse to take you out to dinner.”

Dillon felt his smile stretch wider and leant forward to wrap David in a hug, surprising himself but surprising David more. He leaned forward, resting his forehead in the crook of David’s neck and breathing deep, and soon enough the awkward hold had become a genuine, warming, embrace and it was a struggle to pull back.

“That’s really good news, Love,” Dillon whispered. “And, and, um, dinner sounds good. But, um, I’ve still got stuff to do here so, um, d’you think you’re okay to, to, um, to wait a bit?”

David gave him another quick grin, his white teeth flashing beneath his scruffy beard. There was a good chance he’d shave it off come Monday so Dillon would have to make the most of it before it disappeared, and he brought his hand up to run his fingers along David’s jaw to his lips before he recalled himself. Mike had wandered away from the counter, to give them their privacy he supposed, and was setting up his steamer as quietly as he could, and when David looked across at him Dillon was relieved to see that he was staring at the man with concern rather than distrust.

“I’m sure I can find something to do,” he told Dillon, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before stepping away from the counter and pulling his mobile from his pocket. “I’ll call Smith, ask if he can get someone from uniform to check in on your missing cat owner. It may require some groveling. He got a bit short with me today. I deserved it. He’s had a hard week as well. But I reckon if it’s for you, he’ll say yes.”

Dillon nodded and let him go with a smile as he turned back to the paperwork that needed filing before he could go out to the kennels and check on the animals one last time. His lower back spasmed angrily as he turned but he did his best to ignore the pain and shift his weight off of his weak leg. It was a relief to see David smiling and with a bounce back in his step, and he didn’t want to put a damper of the evening by admitting that he was tired and sore. Tomorrow morning David would be back to running around the house searching for his shoes, and running around Adelaide searching out killers, and Dillon could get back to stressing over their non-existent sex life and hiding the engagement ring he never should have bought.

***

“Congratulations on your good news,” Mike said softly, not looking up when David walked across the waiting room to sit down on one of the flimsy plastic chairs. He was busy wiping everything down and avoiding David’s eye, but his actions didn’t seem like those of a guilty man, just one who wasn’t sure of his welcome.

“Thanks,” David replied, equally softly as he sat back, watching the other man work. “It’ll be good to get back in to things - good to start looking for this Longboat Killer again. My boss’s going to hate me. Well, hate me more.”

Mike chuckled but didn’t look up as he straightened the magazines and pamphlets in the corner. “Maybe. Maybe he’ll be grateful for the help. There’s been nothing useful in the papers about the murders so I assume the whole thing’s been giving them a headache the way it did their predecessors.”

David grunted. Mike wasn’t the only one to notice the lack of reports and it was eating at him that he had no idea what was happening with what he still thought of as his case. Adita hadn’t been able to give him anything after her first visit, not that he had asked, but she wouldn’t have been able to give him anything because there was nothing to give. He’d accused Smith of stalling the case when they’d first met for coffee, at which point he’d been called a idiot and told to go and dunk his head. Smith had given him as much as he could but David was itching to know what was happening. Of course, now that he’d finally been given permission to go back to work he was nervous too, about facing everyone, and about being the next cop to fail at finding the Longboat Killer.

“Actually there’s no predecessor,” he told Mike, fiddling with his phone to avoid having to make awkward eye contact. “Campbell, my boss, was one of the original detectives when the first bodies turned up. He didn’t want me touching any of it. Putting me on leave was his way of getting back at me for ignoring his order.”

“Campbell. Well that explains a few things,” Mike snorted. “Don’t worry, he hated me as well. And he used to,” he grimaced, calling to mind the old memory. “He used to look down my blouse.” He shook himself and glanced toward David, shrugging uncomfortably. “He’s a letch. Which may have made it easier to write less than flattering things about him in my book.”

David held back the laugh that wanted to escape at hearing that but couldn’t hide the grin, and Mike sent him a lopsided one in return. He’d read and reread Mike’s book over the last two weeks and knew the passages Mike was referring to. Campbell, it seemed, had liked throwing his weight around even then and the blunt, accurate, depiction of his character made David think that maybe Mike Magarey could be trusted after all. 

The aging plastic creaked as he sat back and folded his arms, trying to arrange his thoughts. He wanted to pick Mike’s brain, to get a better perspective on what it had been like when they found those first bodies, but more than that he wanted to debrief with someone who understood what he was talking about; talking in to a dictaphone in his cramped spare bedroom just wasn’t the same. The only thing stopping him was the fact that he’d yelled at the man, tried to throw him out of his house, warned his boyfriend off of him, and had called him untrustworthy. He’d already groveled to Smith, the HR department, and Internal Affairs, he wasn’t sure he could do it again but he didn’t seem to have a choice.

“So,” he said eventually, watching as Mike wiped down the chairs opposite him. “Your theories on the Longboat Killer... it feels like you were holding back in your book, like you maybe had a few thoughts that you didn’t share. Would that be about right?”

Mike looked up, blinked several times, and then sat down, twisting his cleaning cloth between his hands. “I didn’t want to be sued. It’s one thing to present the evidence that the police made public, but publishing the names of crooked cops who I suspected might have committed murder or helped to cover it up? No way. Didn’t stop them throwing bricks through my windows anyway. I’ve always thought there might be other bodies out there that were never found or were quietly taken care of. I got my book out sharpish because yeah, I was cashing in on the murders, and I honestly thought there were more coming. I thought at the time I’d get to write a sequel when they finally caught the bastard.” He sighed and finally looked up properly. “The Longboat Killer destroyed my life. I’ve built a new one, a better one in a lot of ways, but I didn’t get to come out to my family the way I wanted to, didn’t get a chance to explain to the people in my life that I’m trans. My parents disowned me, and my brother, because they were told I was unnatural and living a secret, sordid, double life. And I lost my job because my boss was a bigot, and my book deal because the publisher didn’t want the bad press, and my house because I couldn’t afford the mortgage. I couldn’t even afford my meds for the longest time. I wanted to be proud about coming out as trans, like I’m proud now, but I didn’t get that chance. It was stolen from me by someone who wanted to shut me up. And yeah, I have my theories about who did that to me and why, but I don’t want to colour your investigation.”

“Oh, colour away,” David replied, leaning in and trying to seem like he wasn’t desperate for information. “I have been staring at the same sets of limited data for a whole week and I feel like I’m just running around in circles. It’s driving me nuts. I think it’s probably driving Dillon nuts as well.” He sighed. He was not good at apologising or voicing his emotions but he had a lot of ground to make up. “I shouldn’t have dismissed you the other day, Mike. I’m sorry for that. You were right. You’re our expert. I think I’m going to need your help.” He watched as the older man ran his hand along the back of his neck, wondering what more he could say to convince the him. “I’m still trying to figure out motive.”

“Well,” Mike considered slowly. “What do you teach your students when it comes to serial killers? What did you learn starting out? What’ve they all got in common?” David sat back, giving the man space to talk. “Patterns, compulsions, neuroses. They carry on until they’re caught or are scared in to hiding because deep down they want people to know exactly what they’ve done and why and how. They want the acclaim. Our media is saturated with these stories, we idolise these stories. I used to be the one peddling them, I know,” he said heavily, shaking his head. “But this guy wasn’t stopped, or given any reason to stop. He just seemed to decide enough was enough. So where did he find his acclaim? He must have got it some place else. Which doesn’t really make sense. He’s not your standard serial killer. Looking at it now it feels like it was all just... misdirection.”

“Which is why motive is proving a headache,” David agreed, finding it hard to keep his face serious and impassive because Mike just seemed to understand exactly what had been troubling him. “And you know, Commissioner Campbell would say that he scared the Longboat Killer in to hiding all those years ago,” he pointed out, letting the smirk creep on to his lips just a little. “According to him a killer who stabbed people and burnt them alive and drowned them was scared back in to the shadows by one wet-behind-the-ears detective.”

“Campbell’s a dick,” Mike said with enthusiasm, grinning at the surprised laugh that escaped David’s lips. “And a bully,” he added bitterly. “But I doubt very much that his pompous threats were what stopped those killings. I just wish I knew what did.”

“Well, the killings themselves were random, his reason for stopping could have been just as random,” David offered. He didn’t believe it, he just wanted to see how Mike would react, and he wasn’t disappointed.

“Maybe,” he murmured slowly. “D’you know why Eleanor was the real expert on those killings?” 

David shrugged. “There can’t be many experts in ancient viking burial mounds in Adelaide. It was her area, it makes sense.”

Mike grinned. “Those mounds used to drive her nuts. And the boats. She hated me for coining the name ‘Longboat Killer’ because quite obviously those boats are nothing like long boats, and very few vikings were buried in actual boats. She drummed that in to me hard enough,” he smiled sadly. “She was a good woman. She deserved a better end.”

David nodded in agreement. “True. But that doesn’t tell me why she was the real expert. If it wasn’t the mounds or the boats, what was it?”

Mike licked his lower lip and looked up warily. “Eleanor was an expert in a lot of things. Mounds and pyramids and ancient burial practices... and the history of capital punishment. She did a series back in the seventies, short papers about the the history of the death penalty, back when it was the big issue of the day. They were the basis for a series of televised discussions but the producers were far more interested in what she’d written about the ancient forms of capital punishment than they were about Eleanor’s stance that capital punishment doesn’t work as a societal deterrent. They didn’t even air her statistics about how often we were executing innocent people who’d been falsely accused. All anyone wanted to hear about were the grizzly medieval deaths. She told me she even picked up a few stalker types because of it. We did tell your lot at the time, gave them a list of creeps who’d followed her and all, but they didn’t seem fussed.”

David heard the accusation, it was a fair one if he was honest, but he was struggling to understand exactly why Mike was giving this particular information, until he looked closer and saw the tightness of the man’s jaw and the wet glassiness of his eyes. He hadn’t considered that Mike might be grieving, that the Professor might have been a friend to him.

“Well,” he said eventually. “That was a bit before my time, you know? But what do these old papers have to do with-”

“The forms of execution,” Mike cut in, “the one’s she wrote about, the one’s she talked about, to show people we’ve been doing this to each other since time immemorial and that all it does is breed further violence. She really believed in it, so,” he took a steadying breath, “she was devastated when the pattern emerged.”

“The forms of execution?” David urged, already suspecting what would come next.

“She wrote about... in order: impaling, smothering, burning, drowning, flaying, crushing, beheading,” Mike’s voice hitched. “Boiling...” He stopped again, fighting for breath, and David watched him struggle. He didn’t want to stop Mike from talking but hated that giving the information caused him so much pain. “All the way to suffocation from being buried alive. She knew people got a kick out of reading that stuff, and she hoped she could prove that society had changed, that we’re better than our ancestors. Instead someone started killing. The first showed signs of being impaled on a large knife, but it was clumsily done and no one made the connection, even when the next had been strangled, and the third was burned but...”

“I get the idea,” David told him carefully, folding his arms as he added the new information to the puzzle in his mind. If the killer had chosen to follow a pattern then the different methods made sense and he wondered why Campbell hadn’t jumped on the information from the start. “But it wasn’t like the killer started killing straight away. There was a good two decades between the death penalty debate and the first Longboat Killer victim being found. It’s obvious he knew about them, but what was the catalyst? What made him commit the first murder?” Mike shook his head but looked rather more skittish when David asked his next question. “You didn’t mention any of that in your book. Why?”

Mike shrugged but didn’t avoid the question and the answer he gave was not what David had been expecting. “Eleanor asked me not to. She said she’d had enough of the attention and bother, she didn’t want her name in the book any more than she could help. And she said she’d been told it would all resolve itself, as long as she didn’t push things. She didn’t talk to me much after that. I only saw her once after all the shit hit the fan. She told me she was sorry then proceeded to give me a lecture about historical trans men so that I would know I came from a long line of brave men. Then she shook my hand and that was it. I wonder what she’d make of it all starting again. I always got the sense she felt a lot of guilt over it all. Then she called me a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue, so frantic I barely recognised her voice,” he sucked in a shuddering breath. “It was late. I’d had a few drinks. The phone woke me but... I told her to calm down, that I’d call her the next day. She didn’t live to see the next day.”

“Whatever happened back then, Mike,” David told him softly, shaking at how similar their experiences and attitude had been that night, knowing now how the man was feeling. “It wasn’t Professor Harris’s fault. Or yours. You couldn’t have saved her that night. And when I get back on the case I will track this arse-hole down. And it’ll finally be over.” He tried to sound sure of himself but he could see the doubt in Mike’s eyes, and was finally beginning to see why it was warranted. “I keep telling myself that at least no more bodies have turned up but that just means we’ve not found any more. It’s not to say there aren’t more out there. But I will find them. I will find him.”

“I sure hope so. Every day I wonder if this’ll be the day he comes for me,” Mike whispered and David watched as he looked up, fear shining in his eyes as the tears finally fell. “I don’t understand why he hasn’t. He’s tying up loose ends, so why hasn’t he come for me?”

“Good question,” David murmured, narrowing his eyes as he tried to focus on the thought that was teasing on the edge of his awareness. “Unless...” he glanced toward the doors at the back of the shelter, where Dillon was checking on the pets who had lost their homes. “Unless he thinks he already has.”


	11. Chapter 11

Dillon sat on the low wall, looking at the dark waves, and wondered when he’d last had such a pleasant night out. He glanced across at David, biting his bottom lip as he watched the man enjoying his ice cream before he turned his attention back to his own dessert. It had been years since Dillon had been down to the beach in the evening. The beachside suburbs were so often crowded, so full of people out for the night, and Dillon didn’t usually cope with that amount of noise, but David had found a quiet corner of the coast for them, a street that hosted only one or two restaurants, plus a small boutique art gallery, and an old fashioned ice cream parlour down on the corner where the main street met the promenade. 

David had even held his hand as they’d walked and Dillon hadn’t been able to hide his affection or excitement, or the shiver of fear. Experience had taught him the danger of public displays of affection, but David had straightened his shoulders when he’d noticed Dillon’s fear, like he was daring the world to try, and they’d been perfectly fine. The few other people on the street hadn’t looked twice at them, and it had made Dillon feel a little giddy.

He’d worried the conversation would be stilted because Dillon tended to revert to talking about animals by default when stuck for something to talk about, and was pretty sure that it wasn’t as interesting for anyone else as it was for him, but David had just smiled indulgently and asked questions any time Dillon had felt he should probably stop. It was a funny thing, how he managed to speak more smoothly when they were alone and the topic was non-threatening, and after a glass of wine and a delicious bowl of pasta he found himself smiling as they argued over the summer’s cricket line up, watching David’s hands move so enthusiastically as he spoke. He felt warm and pleasantly muzzy-headed and so when David suggested they finish the night with an ice cream down by the jetty, he’d agreed happily.

“It’s really beautiful down here,” David said softly, looking out toward the moon’s reflection on the waves. “Cold, but beautiful.”

“That’d be on, on, account of the um, Southern Ocean,” Dillon told him, gesturing south with his ice cream. “Cold comes straight from, from Antarctica. We call it fresh.”

David laughed, his head falling back and his eyes fixed on the stars, his teeth shining white and his whole body more relaxed than Dillon had seen for the longest time. “Fresh. I like that. Sydney’s always muggy. The heat is wet, the cold is wet. And the beaches are so...” he sat quietly for a moment, his eyebrows drawn down as he searched for the word. “They’re so commercial. Fake. But here... fresh is the perfect way to describe it. We should come here more often. We could check out that little art gallery again, I know you liked a few of the landscapes. And the Korean restaurant looked good as well.Weekly date night? We could make it a thing?”

“I’d like that.”

Dillon felt sure that there was more he should say but couldn’t seem to think of anything so let the sounds of the waves flow between them instead. It was calming and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so safe and at ease while out at night. He let his hand creep over to brush against David’s, moving his pinky finger carefully, testing himself, feeling his heart squeeze painfully within his chest at instigating even so simple an act. David was looking carefully out at the end of the jetty, his face still, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, but he turned his hand, opening his palm to allow Dillon to slide his fingers over David’s.

His chest felt tight, not quite like a panic attack, but still uncomfortable, and he stared at their joined hands for a long moment before looking back up at David’s profile, drinking in the sight of his full lips, strong brow and prominent nose. He didn’t think he’d ever get over the fact that David didn’t think of himself as attractive, it seemed absurd, because Dillon couldn’t imagine anyone more beautiful, and it made his blood fizz just to think that David was his, especially after all they’d been through. 

“I love you,” he whispered breathily, and watched as David turned toward him, his eyes bright, lips parted. “I really, really love you. Thanks for, for, for tonight. It’s been um, it’s been really nice.”

“It doesn’t have to be over yet... if you don’t want it to be.”

***

David moaned as he felt Dillon’s chest press up against his, those nimble hands scratching against his scalp and pulling at his hair until he felt he couldn’t hold himself up any longer and slumped against the front door, in love with the way Dillon was taking the lead and using his strong arms to push him and hold him where he wanted. His hands fumbled as he searched for something to cling on to so that they didn’t end up in an uncomfortable heap on the lounge room floor, until his fingers eventually found the door knob, grabbed on to it desperately and pushed in the deadlock. The sound of Dillon’s breathy sigh against his throat when he heard the lock click in to place brought a grin to David’s lips; trust his boyfriend to find the sound of a locked door sexy, but he wasn’t about to tease him, not when things were going so well and Dillon was grinding against his hips with such intensity.

“Bedroom?” David gasped but couldn’t manage anything else, besides a desperate sounding cry, because Dillon had latched on to his neck just below his jaw, and was pressing his erection, which his work scrubs did nothing to hide, right against David’s own achingly hard cock. For a moment he thought they really were going to fall but then Dillon moved back, smiling dizzily at what David guessed was an impressive love bite just below his stubble.

“Bedroom,” he replied with a quick nod, grabbing his cane from where it had fallen against the wall beside the door. “Bedroom sounds good.”

David tried to come up with some sort of plan as he followed Dillon down the hallway but it was impossible to concentrate because the way Dillon walked was too thoroughly distracting. His arse made David’s hands itch and looked as perfect as always, but there was no way David was going to risk what they had going between them by touching Dillon below the belt. He’d learnt that lesson and he intended to do things differently third time round. He wasn’t much good at ceding control, he did genuinely need Dillon’s reminders that controlling men were not to be tolerated from time to time, but he was smart enough not to push for dominance when he could see how much Dillon needed to do things his way.

He watched as Dillon stopped in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame with his hip cocked, and caught himself actually licking his lips. He hated to admit that he was desperate but he had waited so long to lavish affection on Dillon and the kisses against the front door had left him more than a little desperate. But despite the way Dillon was standing, with his hips angled forward and his jaw jutting out in challenge, David wasn’t blind to the trepidation he saw in those large, dark eyes. 

He walked forward carefully, not wanting to spook the man, and very carefully brushed a lock of hair away from his high, pale, cheekbone. He let his hand linger but not too near Dillon’s throat. He’d learnt very early on in Dillon’s recovery that kisses to his neck and throat were welcome, but hands were not. It hadn’t only been Dillon’s legs and hips that had suffered when he’d been taken by Martin White, he’d been choked as well, and David wondered where it would be best to put his hands for a moment, before Dillon leaned in to kiss him again, his lips pressing gently, a simple connection that made David shiver more than he had during their most passionate kisses that evening. 

He allowed Dillon to take his hand and lead him in to the bedroom and watched as he turned out the lamps until the only light coming in to the room was that provided by the dim glow coming down the hall from the lounge room. He watched, sadness welling up in his chest as Dillon began to fiddle with the zipper on his hoodie, the confidence he’d displayed earlier in the evening evaporating as he stared at the bed. David bit back the urge to take Dillon in his arms and guide him down on to the bed, no matter how much he wanted to. He didn’t want Dillon to feel trapped beneath him on the bed, unable to escape, the way White had held him down. So instead he smiled as broadly as he could and threw himself down on to the centre of the bed, kicking his shoes off and starting on his shirt buttons, loving the huffed laugh he received from Dillon in response. 

Once his shirt was open David slowed down and looked up, and felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of Dillon carefully removing his hoodie, followed by his t-shirt, his movements careful, nervous, but David only saw the smooth slope of his shoulders, the muscles of his arms and stomach, and the pattern of scars that traced up and over his hip bone, almost to his belly button. His face was angled down, his eyes hidden by the fall of his long, brown hair, and David could tell that he was having second thoughts. He sat up on the bed, throwing his shirt to the floor as dramatically as he could, and looked up, forcing Dillon to meet his eye, and smiled ruefully when he saw he had the man’s attention.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, lifting his hand towards Dillon’s side, though he stopped before he actually touched him. “Truly. I don’t know how someone like you ended up with someone like me. You’re perfect.”

Dillon gave him a small smile and ran his hand through David’s hair, drawing him forward until David was able to rub his nose to Dillon’s stomach, pressing kisses to the wiry hairs from his belly button to where his scrubs had slipped low. He could feel Dillon’s erection, could hear the excitement in his stuttered breath, and when he felt Dillon’s hand tighten in his hair he moved lower and pressed his mouth to the bulge.

“Not perfect,” Dillon gasped, gripping David’s hair until it hurt, the sharp pain running through him like a delicious spark. “So far from, from perfect.”

“Perfect to me,” David growled, closing his mouth around the clothed erection until Dillon groaned loudly and began to tug his scrubs down, just enough to give David access to his cock and his thighs, which he immediately began to cover with kisses, drunk on the sounds coming out of Dillon’s throat. 

Slowly, carefully, he edged back on to the bed, bringing Dillon with him, until they were chest to chest and David couldn’t stop the shaking that was overtaking him. He lay back and allowed Dillon to kiss him, to hitch up his leg and loosen his trousers, to trace his fingers along the seam that covered his erection. Then he took Dillon’s face in his hands, sucked in a shuddering breath, and kissed him, arching his back at the push of the tongue against his lips and the graze of teeth. He shook when he felt Dillon’s hand sliding inside his loosened trousers, at the scratch of his nails as he explored and dominated David’s body, and jolted forward with a gasp when Dillon squeezed his overexcited cock harder than he’d been expecting. He wanted to give himself over entirely, to finally do everything he’d imagined doing over the last year and half, and to let Dillon take the lead, but the police officer in his head was suddenly in the way and he found himself pausing, his muscles freezing up before he even knew what was wrong.

“Are you alright?” Dillon asked quickly, sensing the change.

He released David’s leg and knelt back, his hand sliding free from David’s pants to fall limp against his thigh. David could see how hard he was, how willing, but he still needed to make sure that they were on the same page. They had stopped at kisses for so long, kisses with clothes on in fact, and David wanted to know, without any shadow of a doubt that Dillon was happy to continue. He’d had more wine than David, and was obviously in need of affection, but David didn’t want to rush him. At the same time, however, he didn’t want to scare Dillon off, and the longer he lay there, speechless and panting, the more likely it was that Dillon would misunderstand his need to pause and think.

“I’m okay,” he said between heaving breaths, but couldn’t manage anything more because Dillon’s hand was at his cheek, caressing and reassuring and David was sure he didn’t deserve someone so loving and kind in his life.

“Is it me?” Dillon asked softly, and David looked up to see tears in his eyes. “Is it my, my, my...” he huffed and shut his eyes and David watched as he fought with his frustration at not being able to say the words. “Is it my leg?” he asked after a pause, but David couldn’t answer. “Because I can leave my, um, my, my scrubs on, if, if, if you like. We can do something else. Or, or, or we can turn the lounge room light off, so you don’t have to see. Or, I can-”

“I don’t want you to hide from me,” David interrupted, the words tumbling roughly from his mouth and making Dillon jump. “Sorry. But I don’t. I’m not going to be disgusted by your leg, Love, I promise. I’ve seen your leg. I’ve seen both, in fact. Up close and personal, if you recall.” He tried to keep his tone light and flirtatious but Dillon’s smile didn’t last long and soon turned to a grimace that near broke David’s heart. “If you need to stop because you’re not ready, we can definitely do that. But I’m not afraid of what I’m going to find under your clothes, Dill. Quite the opposite, and if that’s all that’s holding you back... you don’t have to.”

“Then why did you freeze up?” Dillon asked, his hand moving from David’s cheek to his lips, and David couldn’t resist the urge to open his mouth when Dillon’s thumb brushed over his lips. “Why did you stop?”

His voice was low and breathy as he asked and David didn’t have a chance to answer because Dillon’s thumb had slipped in to his mouth and his tongue had curled around it, without any input from his brain. He sucked the digit in to his mouth hard and watched as Dillon shuddered. He carried on, sucking at the man’s thumb, swirling his tongue, bobbing his head, until Dillon bucked against him, his eyes shut tight and his mouth open in a wide O.

David didn’t want to stop. It was more erotic than he could have imagined. He did however want to answer Dillon’s question, and prove that he was ready if Dillon was, and so moved his head to the side, letting the thumb slide from his mouth so that he could press a kiss to the palm of Dillon’s hand before he shuffled down in the bed between Dillon’s legs to kiss along the tense muscles of his thighs, until he reached the cotton covered bulge.

“I stopped because I was worried I was taking advantage,” he said, directing his words at the dark trail of hair that disappeared under the line of Dillon’s pants, which he desperately wanted to follow. “I was worried that I was pushing you, and I don’t want that. I want you to do this when you’re ready to, not just because I am. Does that make sense?”

“You really... really want to?” Dillon whispered, his breath hitching when David bit at his inner thigh.

“I want to,” David growled, holding eye contact very deliberately as he ran his fingers along the elastic of Dillon’s pants. “Do you want to?”

“Oh, fuck yes!” Dillon answered, tilting his hips to assist David as he moved back up the bed and then eased the scrubs down Dillon’s legs. “Yes please. I want, I want to, to, to at least try. Yes, yes please.”

David’s heart ached at that choice of words. He’d been there when Dillon had come back from every surgery, had heard the surgeons and doctors explain as carefully as they could that Dillon’s shattered pelvis had pierced his intestines and colon and left them weakened. They’d looked at him so particularly when the topic came up and David had understood the implication. It wasn’t until months later that one of Dillon’s regular doctors had told them both plainly that there was a possibility that Dillon might have lost sexual function due to trauma, and that the damage to his intestines might have long lasting consequences as well.

Dillon still wasn’t sure what his body could manage, David realised sadly, but he was willing to try and David was not about to let him down, not now that they were finally in bed together, and removing their clothes together. He sat up, kissing Dillon gently as he continued to pull the navy cotton scrubs down as carefully as he could, encouraging Dillon to lie back and make himself comfortable, exposing Dillon’s legs and the scars upon them slowly and with reverence. He kissed the large knot of scar tissue at the top of Dillon’s thigh, and received a gasp and a shiver in return, and so continued to kiss his way down until he was able to throw the scrubs over his shoulder and kiss his way back up again. 

The replant scar around Dillon’s shin still fascinated him, where the leg had been shorn off when he was forced in to the river, and then reattached hours later, but he tried not to dwell on it too long, knowing how self-conscious Dillon was about it. David still found it incredible that Dillon’s lower leg and foot had been stitched back on, and that he had feeling in his skin and muscles and toes, and ran his hands carefully over the join, taking care not to press too hard as he showed his adoration and love.

When he finally made his way back up between Dillon’s thighs the man looked positively frantic, but David didn’t want to rush things, not when they’d waited so long, and finally seemed to be getting things right. Dillon’s thumbs were already hooked in the band of his briefs and David helped ease them down, trying not to laugh at the way Dillon wriggled, and getting a glare for his trouble.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Dillon told him warningly. “It’s been a while. I’m, I’m, I’m allowed to be a bit antsy.”

“True,” David nodded solemnly, removing his own trousers and pants as quickly as he could so that he could crawl back up the bed and tuck himself against Dillon’s side, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “But I still want to take things slowly, okay? We’re both up for it but that’s no reason to rush, Love. I want to start simple. Are you okay with that?”

He let his hand wander as he spoke, avoiding the scar tissue that covered Dillon’s hips and outer thighs and focusing on the soft skin of his inner thigh, and Dillon answered the question with another groan, arching his back and spreading his legs. David swung his leg over between Dillon’s two, pressing his erection against Dillon’s uninjured thigh, and then wrapped his hand around his boyfriend’s cock, setting a steady rhythm for both of them while his mouth latched on to Dillon’s arched neck. He wanted to make this memorable. He wanted this to be the sort of night that made them both blush to think back on, and he wanted it to be pain free. Well, almost.

The hickey he was sucking wasn’t exactly painless and Dillon was making those delicious, desperate little noises and pulling at his hair with one hand whilst the other clutched deliriously at the bedding, begging him for more in a way that tested David’s resolve not to rush, but this was the good kind of hurt and he carried on, drawing Dillon closer to the edge, slowly but surely, while his heart sang and the heat coiled tight in his own belly, his body on fire not only with arousal but with intense joy. This was what he needed. He would happily ignore the world and all its crime and atrocities and death in favour of this.

“Fuck,” Dillon whimpered, high and needy. “More. Kiss me. I, I, I... I love you.”

David obliged, kissing him with all the love he could muster, and let the ugliness of the outside world fade away in favour of something much sweeter.

***

Looking down at the head he held in his hands, rain dripping down over the young face, frozen in a stunned expression, he felt a moment of regret. He had stopped, all those years ago, because of a promise. Things had changed now of course. There was little to hold them, no bribes or security any more, and the need, the desire to follow the pattern, to kill and to bury, and to repeat the process again and again was stronger than it had ever been before. And now a police officer was dead, which was a problem because police officers were missed when they didn’t return from calls. A dead police officer could cause problems.

The young man hadn’t even been his target. He’d been watching the Goodfellow woman, wondering if she needed to die, whether she had gotten too close in her search, poking her nose in to things the way her daughter had, when he’d noticed the man and the little dog, coming and going from her filthy little flat each day. He didn’t recognise them but they seemed familiar and the thought that they might have been involved in the search all those years ago had given him a moment of fear. When he’d seen the sharp eyes on the man, and heard him greet the woman by telling her there was no news yet, from Sharma, he knew that this was the next body that needed to fill one of his boats. Helen Goodfellow wasn’t a threat on her own, but she had always managed to wrap weak men around her little finger, and if this man, whoever he was, was working with Sharma, he needed to be eliminated. 

He hadn’t anticipated the dog. The stupid creature had heard the scrape of his shoe as he’d stood by the cream brick wall that separated the block of flats from the road and had started yapping. Instead of telling the damn thing to shut up the man had made as if to investigate, walking back down the dark driveway, but the Goodfellow woman had argued, tugged at his sleeve, almost begging him, it seemed, to come inside with her. Perhaps the man was just a client, he thought, his lip curling in distaste, but no, whoever he was, he knew Sharma, which meant he was connected to the new investigation somehow, which meant he was dangerous. 

He had decided to leave, there was equipment he needed after all, so had walked away from the shabby block of flats and the quiet dead-end street, and had returned later in the evening, to wait. He hadn’t dared to stand anywhere too close for fear of the dog seeing him before time, and so had been forced to hide behind the overgrown lilly-pilly hedge that hung over the outside of the wall, and to rely on his hearing instead. The rain began to fall gently over him as he waited, distorting the sounds from the street and the sounds coming from the row of flats. He had heard the door open, the woman’s voice, the door close, footsteps. Then when he saw the shadow appear around the brick wall he raised the long blade above his head and swung. 

Only the man whose head he now held was not the man he’d seen with Helen Goodfellow, and the body lying at his feet was dressed in a police uniform. The adrenaline was still flooding his system, pounding in his ears at the same rate as the rain, filling him with a sweet warmth better than any rush he’d felt before, but the niggling worry remained. The obvious choice to fill the boat was Sharma, it all came back to that nosey detective, but going after that sort of man was dangerous. One of his lackeys though, or the boyfriend, that could prove a very successful deterrent.


	12. Chapter 12

Dillon stretched, hissing as his leg twinged painfully, and tucked himself up in to a ball for a moment, eyes shut tight and teeth clenched to try and make it stop. Mornings were always bad. No matter how well he’d slept he always woke up sore, reminded afresh of everything that’d happened, the pain and the fear and the life that had been ripped away. For a moment he wanted to cry, to pull the blanket over his head and pretend he couldn’t hear the sounds of traffic and birdsong and the light patter of rain on the window that told him it was morning and that he needed to get up, until he felt a shift in the bed behind him, of someone sliding under the covers and edging carefully in his direction.

At the touch of David’s lips against his shoulder Dillon smiled, remembering their night together; the way David had eaten his ice cream, the way he’d laughed and grinned in the moonlight, the way he’d looked up at Dillon from their bed, so giving, so intense, and so incredibly hot. He shivered as he felt David’s hand slide over his waist, and wriggled backwards until he felt the warm bare chest against his back and the smile against his neck. Dillon hadn’t slept without a t-shirt since leaving the hospital, hadn’t let David see him naked in the full month they’d been living together, and his chest tightened at the feel of another person’s skin against his, at knowing that David had seen him completely vulnerable the night before. Yet David was there, in bed with him, nuzzling against his neck and running his hand over Dillon’s ribs. He hadn’t run away, moved out, or tried to avoid Dillon in some way, he’d stayed, and he wasn’t afraid.

“Hey Sleeping Beauty,” David whispered, rubbing his nose against Dillon’s shoulder before pressing another kiss to the overwhelmingly sensitive skin and making Dillon shiver again. “I made breakfast if you’re hungry.” 

Dillon rolled over at that, on to his back and in to David’s arms, smiling up at the way David’s hair stuck up around his head like a thick, black velvet halo, the way his eyes seemed to dance when he grinned like that, like he was plotting some wonderful surprise and could barely keep it to himself.

“You made me breakfast?” he laughed, bringing his hand up to trace the line of David’s nose down to his lips. “What, what did you make, corn flakes and milk?”

David let out a short laugh and gently grabbed Dillon’s finger between his teeth, grinning playfully before tilting his head back to allow Dillon to take his hand back, his grin still in place but his eyes tentative. “Alright, I made coffee then. But I will make breakfast, if you want me to. Breakfast in bed since you don’t have to work today?”

He raised his eyebrows and Dillon could see how excited he was that he was going to be back at work, getting in trouble and exercising his brilliant mind, and the enthusiasm was infectious. “Actually I, um, have to be up and, and about today,” he explained softly, not wanting to dampen David’s good mood or upset the delicate trust between them when it was finally blossoming so beautifully. “Physio um, I have physio at ten, then um, doctor at twelve. Then, then, then grocery shopping. Mmm,” he grinned ruefully, looking away from David’s indulgent smile. “You know me, Mr. Excitement! I, I, I, I don’t know how you even keep up.”

David leaned in carefully, licking his lips, but didn’t close the gap between them. Instead he gazed down at Dillon like he wasn’t sure how to express how he felt, mouth open and lips achingly soft and kissable. The smile he gave then, with a soft breath of laughter, made Dillon’s heart sing in his chest. He nearly stretched out to initiate the kiss but hesitated, wanting to hear what David had to say, in love with the deep rumble of his voice, and the reaction it was drawing from his body.

“You are exactly as exciting as I want you to be,” David told his huskily, his eyes skimming down the length of Dillon’s torso quickly before darting back up to his face hungrily. “If anything I think you need to slow down. I can’t keep up with how excited your body makes me.” He swooped down to lay a delicate kiss on his lips and Dillon found himself arching up in to the touch, not caring that his back and hips were protesting, but David pulled back too soon, angling his hips away, and looked down at Dillon with his brown eyes large with concern. “Seriously though, please don’t overdo it? Last time you tried to do a full shop alone you barely made it home on the bus and spent the weekend holed up in pain on the couch. I moved in here so you wouldn’t have to do that. We can share those jobs now.”

Dillon looked up, running his hands along the smooth muscles of David’s biceps and doing his best to look flirtatious rather than just flat out terrified. “Is that, that... is that really the only reason you, you moved in here?”

“Well, that and my lease expired,” David joked and Dillon gasped in mock outrage, loving the ridiculous giggle that escaped from between David’s lips. “But mostly it was because I love you and hated not spending every minute of my free time with you... hated not waking up beside you... missed your cooking.”  
It was Dillon’s turn to laugh at that and as David leant his forehead down against his, until their noses were touching and he could smell the rich, dark, caffeine smell on his boyfriend’s lips, Dillon felt the flutter in his heart increase until his chest physically hurt.

“I love you too.” 

“Love me enough to wait ‘til I get home to go shopping?” David asked, nuzzling against him, pressing short gentle kisses to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll worry otherwise.”

“I’m not, um, not doing a full shop,” Dillon told him, feeling a blush beginning to form on his cheeks when David moved back to stare at him so intensely. “I’m just going to the, the, the Indian grocers round the corner. There’s a new, um, recipe I want to try. Do you like gulab jamun?”

He laughed in surprise and delight when David swooped in again and kissed him thoroughly. He raised his arms up, draping them over David’s shoulders as he felt teeth nip at his bottom lip, shivering as David’s tongue swiped across them, soothing the bite and begging entry. Kissing like this, with bare chests touching, with David’s leg between his thighs, in the grey light of the rainy morning, was terrifying but electrifying as well and Dillon felt his body begin to prickle with heat as the sensations began to overwhelm him. He opened his mouth, flicked his own tongue forward to meet David’s, and felt the heat rush through his belly and straight to his groin. He moaned, grabbing at David’s hair and loving the echoing moan that came from his boyfriend’s mouth as his hips bucked and their groins collided.

“Is that a yes?” Dillon gasped between kisses, unable to hide his smile or renewed giggles at the way David continued to kiss his lips, cheeks, jaw, and neck. 

“You’re perfect, you know that, right?” David growled in his ear, his hips rocking against Dillon’s, but carefully, to avoid putting too much pressure on his pelvis. “I’m in love with a man who looks like a model and cooks like a god.” He kissed Dillon again, pressing their lips together so that Dillon fancied he could taste the affection in the words. “I am so glad I found you. God, I love you.”

“I love, love you too,” Dillon smiled breathlessly, shifting his hips against the mattress as obviously as he could, and David began to kiss down along his chest and stomach, moving with such aching slowness that Dillon could hardly bear it. 

He wanted to look away when David reached his hips, to pretend that there was nothing wrong, that the nightmarish events that had led to his shattered pelvis and leg hadn’t happened, but found that he couldn’t. David was glad to have found him, just as Dillon was to have found David apparently, and that never would have happened if Dillon hadn’t run out to the middle of the countryside to mend his broken leg and broken heart, and if David hadn’t ended up in the same town, tracking down Dillon’s would be killer. He wasn’t in any way pleased that they’d had to go through so much to find each other and realise how they felt about each other, but the scars were a reminder of all they’d overcome to be together, and that David had never turned away from him, even when things had been difficult and gruesome and tiring. 

It was hard to hate a part of his body that David was kissing with such tenderness and as he helped David remove his track pants Dillon made a point of cataloguing his scars, and David’s reaction to them. By the time he found himself watching David kiss his way around the scar on his shin Dillon felt light headed and shaky, unable to properly process that David didn’t simply tolerate his body, but seemed to love it, and as David moved back up between his thighs Dillon finally let his eyes slide shut, happy to surrender to David’s stubborn adoration.

***

David stared at the reports in front of him, trying to decide what he needed to focus on first, even as his brain insisted on showing him a loop of his morning in bed with Dillon. It was as if the dam had burst; the fear that had held Dillon captive for almost as long as they’d known one another had broken and given them both permission to finally show their feelings for one another. David was under no impression that everything would be perfect and peachy of course, he knew life didn’t work that way, and Dillon’s panic attack in the shower later that morning had been proof that they still had a long way to go, but they had made a start, and David had felt strangely invincible because of it, though the feeling had evaporated quickly when he saw the large pile of paperwork he needed to read in order to be up to speed with the Longboat case, such as it was. 

Campbell was still conspicuously absent and David had spent the last hour pretending he couldn’t see the other officers glancing at him every few minutes, some sheepishly, some suspiciously. He could understand the suspicion, they wouldn’t be detectives if they didn’t look at just about everyone with a healthy measure of mistrust, but it didn’t make his job any easier. No one in Homicide wanted to go anywhere near the Longboat case, no one wanted to even call it that, and until he got a response from the Serious Crime Unit he didn’t have any real jurisdiction over the case at all. 

What he did have was everything Smith had been able to get to him before he went to his own hearing. Even thinking about Tom Smith being taken off the case and put under suspicion made David’s stomach turn but he knew why it was happening. Smith’s signature was on some very incriminating documents and that couldn’t be ignored. David just wished his friend had told him what was going on instead of keeping it so close to his chest. He hadn’t told David about it even as they’d been discussing David’s own suspension, and David couldn’t decide whether it was a sign that Smith was hiding something dangerous or was simply struggling with the idea of being set up. Either way, they’d only had a few moments to talk that morning, but David had seen a shadow in the man’s eyes, even if he’d denied having any real concerns about the whole mess. Things were not going well and David had heard whispers about the curse of the Longboat Killer, that it was set to kill off as many careers as it had the last time. David could tell why people were avoiding him but he didn’t care if the case destroyed a dozen careers, including his, he intended to solve it and stop the killer for good.

He looked over the last two reports to have reached his desk, a nagging starting up in the back of his brain that he couldn’t yet pin down. One was from the uniforms who’d gone to check on Dillon’s missing cat owner and stated plainly that there was no sign of forced entry and nothing suspicious about the property to suggest that Mrs. Madeline Magarey-Smith had done anything more than go on holiday without telling her neighbours. There was a chance that she’d housed the cat somewhere and that it had escaped and made it’s way home. The report was short and blunt and it was obvious enough that whoever had written it had felt their time was being wasted, but David didn’t buy it. If the cat had escaped from a kennels an alert would have been put out and Dillon’s work would have seen it. If the cat had been left with a friend then he felt sure they would have made an effort to search for the animal. Normal people didn’t just abandon their pets, not when they were recently divorced and didn’t seem to have any other close family. Under normal circumstances he would admit it was strange and hand it over to the appropriate department but his trust in Missing Persons had waned and a quick call confirmed for him that no one had filed a report. A few more calls and he had failed to find a trace of her in any of the local hospitals. She was just gone, and the circumstances were far from normal. Madeline Magarey-Smith shared a name with the author of the definitive book on the Longboat Killer. It was a name Mike hadn’t used for at least fifteen years, but it was enough of a connection to make her sudden disappearance suspicious.

Of course, David thought as he sat back at his desk and steepled his fingers, very few people knew that Mike had changed his name. Despite the fact that he’d been outed publicly against his will most people only remembered that he’d been threatened and called “unnatural”. It was standard behaviour, David had found. Half of the officers and department heads he’d come out to didn’t seem to have understood him or retained the fact that he was gay, no matter how many times he reminded them that his partner was a man, no matter how often he called people out for homophobic language and prejudice. He’d been sneered at for being an ardent ally more times than he wanted to count so he wasn’t surprised that the people he’d spoken to had never registered what it meant to Mike to be outed in such a way, or that he had changed so much since they’d known him.

His eyes widened as he realised that the people who had mentioned ‘Madeline Magarey’ to him had been Smith and Commissioner Campbell. Campbell who had warned him away from the mess, and Smith whose fingerprints seemed to be all over the case. Both had been involved in the investigation the first time around, and the more David learnt about that investigation, the more likely it seemed that simple incompetence hadn’t been behind the lack of result. He’d met negligent police officers before, officers who chose to ignore reports, especially when the injured or missing person was of little importance. As a gay man and an Indian man he’d faced it first hand, but the Longboat Case had a scent of willful neglect to it and it was setting David’s teeth on edge.

He pushed the report aside in favour of the other one, the one that had ended up on his desk purely by chance, because someone down at the Whitecove station had remembered his interest in Helen Goodfellow and all of the yelling he’d done when he found out about how badly they’d treated her when Candice first disappeared. Helen had called to report someone suspicious standing by her garden wall and, out of fear of Detective Sharma finding out, the local station had sent someone to look in to it. David felt a pang of guilt that Helen hadn’t felt able to call him; she had talked to Dillon in the last week but not to him, and he would need to make it up to her, to apologise for his behaviour, and to ask her exactly what she’d seen. 

The real reason the report had been forwarded to him wasn’t only because of Helen however, it was because the officer who had been called to her house never returned to the station, and hadn’t been seen or heard from in the last twelve hours. Someone had decided that in addition to searching for their missing officer in all of the usual places, it might be worth passing on the information to the nosey detective. David didn’t much like the idea of having a reputation for being difficult, he preferred to get on people’s good side, to charm people, but he needed answers and there seemed to be very few of those around.

Rubbing his eyes David sat back, trying to figure out what to do next, but as he reached for his phone, thinking to start with a call to Helen, it began ringing and he jumped before fumbling for the handset, wondering what was causing him to feel so anxious, and why he still felt that nagging, prodding worry in the back of his mind. 

“Detective Inspector Sharma,” he rattled down the line, clearing his throat and trying to sound bright and cheerful, and happy to be back at work, which he was, even if the case was already giving him a headache.

“Detective Inspector Sharma,” came Adita’s cheerful, if slightly nervous, voice down the line. “It’s good to have you back, sir. Are you settling in okay? Detective Sergeant Smith said he’d be passing his notes on to you, I just called him. Did you get my reports?”

David took a moment to analyse the tone of her voice, and to reign in his own nerves and temper, before answering. “That I did, Adita, thank you. I’ve looked through your report, that hair you found is the most interesting part, we need to look more closely at that, it could be all we have to go on. And a short, grey hair certainly fits with the idea that our killer is at least in his fifties.” He stopped for a moment, taking a mental step back. “Is that the only reason you’re calling Adita? Any reason you didn’t just jump in to the lift and come visit me?”

“Yeah, well,” Adita sighed, and David sat forward, his interest growing the longer her silence lasted. “I’m not at the station. I’m down the road at the state library, in the archives rooms.” She sighed again and David pursed his lips to stop himself from snapping at her.

“Well it’s a lovely building,” he said lightly. “I’ve not actually been in it but it looks nice. Very old, very regal. Very... nice. You find anything interesting in there?” 

There was another long silence before the answer came and David knew that whatever was to come wouldn’t be anything light or cheerful. “Nothing nice, sir. Just a lot of blood. A lot of blood. I’m guessing you’re going to get a call pretty soon anyway. I’ve requested your presence. I just...”

“Take your time,” David told her, tugging his jacket on and stacking the files on his desk as neatly as he could. “I’m sure they’ll call me soon and if not I can always call in a favour to get there. Give me ten minutes.” He paused, waiting for what more Adita needed to tell him, but she stayed silent and David phrased his words as carefully as he could. “Why exactly do you need my presence, Adita? What’s going on there?”

“Well, I’m nosey, you know?” the young scientist told him quietly, the background noise fading as if she were walking away from the scene to talk more openly. “I was called in when the uniform officers realised there was blood around a fallen bookcase. They had thought they were dealing with a break-in. When we started to lift the bookcase though... there’s a lot of blood, Detective. And I needed a moment, so I walked away... and got to thinking again about those missing files and...” she took another deep breath and David got carefully to his feet. He was pretty sure that he knew the shape of what was coming and he wanted to get to the library as soon as he could. “I asked one of the librarians if they had anything on the Longboat Killings, because I’m an idiot But they went so pale, sir, I’m so sorry. They say a huge amount of old newspapers are missing, some from twenty years ago, some even older, and all of Professor Harris’s published works as well. All of them. And one of their archivists can’t be reached. I really think you should get here soon.”

“I’m on my way,” David told her, pressing the phone between his shoulder and cheek to pull his jacket on properly and stuff his mobile and notebook in to his pockets. He spent a long moment staring at the stack of reports on his desk before sliding them in to his bag to bring along as well. Too many things had gone missing in this case, he wasn’t going to take any chances, even within his own office. “I’ll make some calls and be there as soon as I can. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, okay?”

“Will do,” Adita replied, and David heard her relieved sigh. “Thanks, sir.”

David hung up the phone and walked toward the lifts as fast as he could without attracting too much attention. He’d only been back at work for a couple of hours and was sure there’d be talk about him ducking out again so quickly, but he needed to get ahead of the game, and he’d feel much better about the phone calls he had to make if they weren’t being overheard by people who had seemed perfectly happy with the way Campbell had handled things, and in handing over the bodies found at the construction site from Homicide to Serious Crime. He’d heard the forensic team’s work being disparaged that morning and had been warned that their findings had been wildly inaccurate, that the bodies were old and that the crime wasn’t murder but merely wrongful exhumation and desecration of human remains. It made David want to scream at them all that a theory like that didn’t make an ounce of sense, that several of them had seen the bodies, that David had seen the bodies, and had known two of the victims. The bodies weren’t old, and they hadn’t died of natural or innocent causes, and the fact that half of his department were willing to ignore these facts was downright frightening. 

Not for the first time, David wondered if the homicide department couldn’t do with a little pruning but Campbell seemed to have cultivated his team to conform to his wishes and display just the right amount of apathy and willful ignorance. David was the outsider, which left him with few allies in his department, but he was also stubborn and knew that if Adita was at the scene, and had requested his presence, there was a chance the right people would catch wind of it. 

As if on cue his mobile buzzed and David smiled when he heard the brusque tone of the head of the Serious Crime Unit, asking him to get himself down to the State Library sharpish. The man seemed agitated but David couldn’t help the bubbling excitement and adrenaline building up within him. His mind was making connections and throwing hypotheses at him and he knew, as surely as he knew anything, that he could get to the bottom of this.

***

Dillon limped toward the front door, his chest tight and heart racing even though he knew who was on the other side of it. David had called an hour ago, to see how Dillon had gotten on at the doctor’s and to say that he was aiming to be home by seven, but also to inform Dillon that Helen was on her way to their house. It seemed to Dillon that David had decided not to jump in at the deep end on his first day back on the case so much as leap off a cliff in to a rough ocean. He’d told Dillon as much as he could, that he was looking in to the owner of the cat currently staying at the shelter, that he was investigating a crime at the library in the city centre, and that he was meeting with some police officers at Helen’s local station after they had decided to take Mike in to custody. He’d been on his way to the university when he made the call, to look back over Professor Harris’s photographs apparently, and Dillon could hear the excitement in his voice. That excitement never failed to scare him; the rest of the world took a backseat when David got excited like that.

And now Helen was at his door because David was concerned about her and apparently hadn’t been able to convince her to go anywhere else. He took a deep breath, calming his heart once more before he opened the door and saw Helen, not wanting her to see how difficult his day had been, knowing it had been nothing in comparison to what she had been through. He changed his grip on his new cane, his crutch, hating the thing but hating more that he was hiding it, and then opened the door just enough to see the woman on the other side, who was shaking easily as much as he was and gripping her own cane like her life depended on it. 

“Hey,” he mumbled softly once he’d confirmed it was her, closing the door again to release the chain before opening it properly to let her in. “Come on in. Are, are, are you alright?” 

He stood back to let her pass, smiling as Chip, the little Jack Russell that Mike had adopted and who had in turn adopted Helen, trotted past him and in to the house. But instead of following the confident little dog in to the lounge room, Helen leaned forward to wrap him in an awkward, one armed hug and Dillon leant back on his crutch, caught off guard, wrapping his free arm around her fiercely as she began to cry. He guided her carefully to the couch and made sure she was comfortable before crossing back to shut the door, running his fingers across the chain and deadbolt twice to convince himself that they were properly locked, and then walked carefully back to where Helen was still quietly sobbing on the couch.

He sat down beside her, freeing his arm from the forearm support on his crutch and letting it roll from the couch to the floor. He didn’t like the thing, hated that his physio had insisted on it, but it was more comfortable than he’d expected, and more supportive, and he hoped that he’d learn to like it, rather than seeing the upgrade as further proof that he wasn’t going to get any better, and another clear sign to the wider world that he was broken and only worthy of pity. Helen looked up at the clatter as the forearm crutch hit the carpet and Dillon took her hand as she sniffed.

“Sorry,” she said tiredly, her other hand coming up to cling to her necklace as she glanced over. “It’s been a long week. A long couple of weeks. I got a call this morning. Missing Persons claiming they’d found proof that Candice was-” she paused and closed her eyes, and Dillon watched the tears escape and make their way down her tired cheeks. “They said Candice was living in Queensland. I lost my cool a little, asked them how they could mess up that bad. They claimed they had received secure information, that they’d look in to it if there was some mistake. It was horrible. I just want to be able to bury my little girl and put all this to rest but I can’t even do that. And last night we - Mike and I - we thought there was a man lurking out the front, so we called it in. And now the cop who came to look in to it is missing and they’ve taken Mike in for questioning over it. Your David called me just after they took Mike and I just-” Dillon watched as her lip trembled, the strain of the grief and the stress overwhelming her again. “I just want my little girl back.”

Dillon held her as tightly as he dared, stroking her hair as he listened to her cry and felt his own tears make silent tracks down his cheeks. He remembered that grief, that fear, that desire for peace and rest, and to just be given a break from the never-ending cycle of it all. It had been hard enough to lose the man he loved, his first boyfriend, he couldn’t imagine losing a child, and Helen and Candice had been as close as a mother and daughter could be. He couldn’t imagine his own mum being so distraught. 

When Helen’s sobs quieted Dillon loosened his arms and gave her the space to shuffle backwards, just enough to give Dillon a watery smile, and to squeeze his knee in thanks. As soon as there was space between them Chip jumped up onto her lap and yapped, bringing a wider smile to Helen’s lips and a spark of joy to her tired eyes. She ran her hands over the dog’s short fur, steadying her breathing, and Dillon grinned down at the little mutt as it waggled its stumpy tail and did all within it’s power to cheer its owner up. 

“He’s a, a, a good little helper, huh?” he smiled, scratching Chip behind the ear. “Think he’d like to, to, to help me out in the kitchen? He’ll have to, um, to be on his best behaviour though. I have a, a, a cat who’s picky about who he shares space with.”

Helen cocked her head to the side as she looked at him, her lips pressed together as she considered his words. “He’s a pretty protective little guard dog,” she smiled, “but I can put him out the back if he starts to cause a fuss. What are you making?”

“Gulab jamun,” Dillon told her excitedly, trying to stop himself from fidgeting as he described the dessert. “I got a message from, from one of, um, David’s sisters. She, she, she said she’d heard I was trying to make some, um, traditional Indian dishes and offered gulab jamun as, as, as one of David’s favourite sweets.”

Helen’s lips twitched. “You two are very sweet,” she told him, her hand returning to grip the pendant around her neck. “He must love you a lot to be boasting to his sisters about your cooking.” Dillon blushed and looked away. He’d had the same thought when he’d received the text the previous day but it felt good to hear it aloud. “Sorry,” Helen continued. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I think it’s nice is all. You’ve both been through a lot.” Dillon wasn’t sure what to say next, when faced with that sort of kindness, but Helen accepted the silence and grabbed up her cane. “I like your new stick, by the way. I’ve been thinking about getting one of those.”

Dillon made a face. “My physio thinks the, the, the way I use my cane is, um, is, is making my spine worse, which makes my hip worse. I blame the, the pain on the fact that my, um, leg is shorter than it, it, it used to be, and the, um, the fact that, you know, everything hurts. All the time. But she wants me to give it a go,” he huffed, picking up the crutch and examining the forearm cuff and it’s black foam padding. “It is, it is, um, easier though,” he admitted. “It’s just... more obvious.”

“I get that,” Helen nodded, using her cane to pull herself up to a standing position. “But sometimes we have to swallow the pride and do what’s best, don’t we?” She grinned ruefully, holding out her free hand to help Dillon up. “Come on now, sweet boy. Come teach me how to make gulab jamun. Talk to me about nice things, make an old woman happy.”

Dillon snorted as he struggled to his feet. “You’re not old. Come on, I’ll I’ll, I’ll race you to the kitchen, make some tea, talk about, about, um... happy things.” 

He grinned, trying to straighten his spine and hips. David had warned him to stay away from anything to connected directly to the Longboat Murders and Dillon had gladly agreed. Catching killers wasn’t something he could do, but making people feel safe and comfortable with tea and food and pets and simple, if stumbling, conversation - that was something he could do. And besides, he reminded himself as he walked past the bedrooms and in to the kitchen, he’d had enough happiness in the last twenty-four hours to be able to pass some of it along, and he was dying to tell someone how good it felt to finally be back in David’s arms, to be with him properly after so many months of just wishing and fighting with his mind to be able to. He’d been given some happiness and he needed to pay it forward.

Beyond the locks of the little house, out in the street, a car pulled up and waited. A cat’s ears pricked and a small dog trotted over to the window and growled until, after a time, the car indicated for a careful count of five and drove away.


	13. Chapter 13

David stood by the cream brick wall and stared at the gentle movement of the lilly-pilly tree. The scene was so ordinary, so suburban and innocuous at first glance, yet he knew it was nothing of the sort. The leaves were a deep glossy green, some still wet from the rain that had been falling intermittently through the night and most of the morning, and the dark smattering on the wall behind the tree was so easy to miss. He could better believe that the local police had missed it than that the killer had but then, he reminded himself, there had been an awful lot of blood at the crime scene at the city library, even if it hadn’t been apparent straight away. So much blood. It didn’t seem to fit with the killer who had cleared all evidence of themselves from the Whitecove library and Philip Bingle’s home. He’d called Smith, though the man had been in no mood to talk to him, and had demanded to know whether there had been much evidence of foul play during the first round of murders, and he shivered as he looked back up at the blood spatter that peaked out from between the leaves, thinking over Smith’s blunt, tired words.

“No one suspected anything until the bodies turned up. We never even found the crime scenes for some of them. Just the bodies. When we searched the homes we didn’t find much. Just the empty spaces where photographs and nick-knacks had been taken to be buried with each victim.”

David looked down at the photograph in his hand. It had been a long shot, a hunch, but Smith’s words had put the thought into his head and once it was there it wouldn’t budge. Photographs and mementos; they seemed to be so central to this mystery but no one had thought to look at them more closely. Professor Harris had called them window dressing according to Mike, just a symbol to dress the killings up in a certain way, to make the whole thing more confusing and senseless. But history did seem to be important, and the longer he looked at the old, smoke stained photograph the more he saw that as fact rather than feeling. 

Behind him a car pulled up but David didn’t turn. He’d seen the cop car turn on to the street, and he didn’t want to look at the uniform officer just yet. He’d marched in to the tiny station in a rage, demanding that they tell him everything and release Mike, forgetting that one of their own was missing, that they were equally angry and desperate for someone to blame. He’d given them an hour to get Mike’s statement and then let him go and then had gone to Helen’s flat, hoping to find answers and sure that he wouldn’t. Instead he’d found blood on the wall that separated the block of flats from the street, and twenty minutes later Adita and her team had been scouring the area for evidence. Now they were gone and the local officers were returning to secure the site and take additional statements from Helen’s neighbours and David’s blood felt like it was starting to fizz in his veins, forcing him to move and move fast. He heard the officers approach and turned to face them, nodding first at the sergeant and then at Mike who was standing next to him.

“The disappearance of Police Constable Spence is, as of now, being treated as a suspected homicide,” he said, adding as much authority to his voice as he could as he looked from face to face. He couldn’t show emotion, couldn’t show that he was frustrated, he would leave that to the women and men who had actually known Spence. All he could do was give them their orders and go and catch the man who’d committed the crime. “I need this area secured. Samples and photographs have already been taken but I don’t want anyone coming through here just yet so I need this area blocked off. I’ll also need statements from the neighbours. This is a big block on a quiet street. There’s a good chance someone heard or saw something. Go to it.”

He gave the sergeant another nod before turning away, allowing the man to take charge and assign each task as he saw fit. He didn’t really want to spend any more time with them than was absolutely necessary and when a hand came to rest on his shoulder he was relieve to turn and see it was Mike. He gestured for the man to follow him, walking down the street toward his car, and Mike took the hint, staying silent until he could lean against the wet bonnet, arms crossed and studying David with an unnerving intensity.

“Homicide then,” he said softly. “You think the killer was really aiming for some green little constable just out of training? Or do you think he was going for someone else and messed up?”

The words were gruff and straight forward but David could see the fear behind them. Mike had the look of a man who hadn’t slept at all in the last twenty-four hours and David knew what the event must be doing to him. He couldn’t lie.

“I think the killer was aiming for someone else,” he agreed. “But I also think he’s getting sloppy. He’s not carefully choosing people no one will miss. He’s not taking his time. He’s leaving blood on walls and library floors and he thinks he’s destroying all the evidence but he’s not.”

Mike took a moment to process the information, chewing the inside of his cheek as David’s words sunk in. He was still scared, still holding himself tight, but David’s enthusiasm was difficult to ignore, and he hadn’t been able to reel it in. “You find the old case notes then?”

“No. But I did find this.” 

He handed the framed photograph over to Mike and watched him examine it for a long moment before looking back up in confusion. “Was this found with the Professor?”

“No, it was left in her office,” he explained, moving to lean against the bonnet beside Mike so that he could look at the picture of a middle aged Eleanor Harris standing proudly at a dig site beside an exposed Viking longboat. “That’s the Professor,” he pointed. “And that young man there was an archivist and historian by the name of Jacob Toolin. D’you know him?”

“No,” Mike shook his head. “That guy looks vaguely familiar though,” he said, pointing at one of the other young men in the shot. “But I don’t know any Jacob Toolin. Should I?”

“No. He was apparently not much of a people person,” David explained. “And this is an old photo. I only know it’s him because I saw a photo from this same dig site this morning, in the bottom drawer of Mr. Toolin’s desk. In the city library. I was going to head in there this morning, to look for the old newspapers, and to get hold of Eleanor’s books and papers... but it seems that the killer got there first.” He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and squash down his frustration, glaring off down the street and the dripping eucalypts. “We suspect it happened two nights ago. Toolin stayed back after the library closed apparently and there’s no record of him leaving. His office was locked. We only got called in when the head archivist used their key to enter, looking for an old manuscript, and found the blood. The security footage shows one male figure exiting later in the night, pushing a cleaning trolley and taking out several boxes.”

“A cleaning trolley,” Mike said without emotion. “So you’re back to suspecting me.”

“No,” David told him trying to soften his tone to show Mike that this was a conversation, not an interrogation. “No, you were with Helen, she gave me her word and I don’t doubt that. I don’t suspect you. But whoever’s doing this knows how to cover their tracks. Who looks twice at a cleaner?”

“No one,” Mike answered, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Absolutely no one. So this Toolin bloke, he knew Eleanor, but what else did he know that got him killed?”

David drew in a deep breath of his own and pushed off from the car, glancing at the officers busily knocking on doors and cordoning off the footpath by the wall and lilly-pilly tree. “My guess is that the killer asked Toolin to get out all of the newspapers and books, same as they must have done at the university library. They used Toolin and then killed him.” He narrowed his eyes suddenly, thinking over the situation for what felt like the hundredth time that day, barely noticing the droplets against his skin as the rain started up once more. “But how did the killer convince Toolin to stay back late? Unless they already knew each other?”

He grabbed back the photograph, flung the car door open, and jumped inside just as the rain began to hit the windscreen with vengeful force. He was vaguely aware of Mike doing the same, but his focus had narrowed to the photograph, namely in removing it from it’s ancient frame. Prying his fingers between the frame and backing sent a hiss of pain through his fingers but David carried on until he was able to remove the photo and turn it over, letting out a relieved sigh when he saw the names written across the back in fading cursive. 

He turned toward Mike with a grin, holding the photograph up again, to display what he now knew to be a selection of Professor Harris’s students from the early eighties. “What if our killer is in this photo? You said you suspected it was someone who was obsessed with the Professor, someone who knew their work. The fact that all of her work has gone missing from the only two libraries in town who had them could be proof that whoever’s behind this wants to destroy more than just our leads, they want to destroy their own past, which suggests that their past, and Professor Harris’s past, are linked somehow.” Mike frowned, crossing his arms and staring hard at the picture but David couldn’t wait for him to catch up. “You said one of the men in this photo looked familiar, and you’re right.”

Mike’s frown deepened, the line of his mouth turning, as if he had tasted something unpleasant. “He looks like Campbell.”

“Exactly!” David agreed. “And on the back it says ‘The Campbell Brothers. Longboat dig, 1985’. I didn’t know that Campbell had a brother, or that he went to a dig with Professor Harris and Jacob Toolin. Or that he knew two of the victims. Did you?”

“Well, we both knew two of the victims,” Mike pointed out, taking the photograph from David and staring at the faded names.

“Yes, but we were open and up front about it,” David countered. “Campbell didn’t mention it to me, and there’s no word of it in the reports Smith passed on to me. Did you know that your Professor went on a dig with my Commissioner?”

“No,” David ceded, “but those sorts of details weren’t really important to Eleanor. There’s a good chance that she didn’t recognise him. He’s a lot smaller in this photo, none of the bulk he’s got now. It’s his piggy squint that I recognised. She probably didn’t remember him.” He paused, looking thoughtfully at the picture of the smiling woman. “She had a tendency to get caught up in the past. She could give you details about the lives of ancient kings and merchants but not the people she interacted with every day. You think Campbell killed her?”

“I think he knows a lot more than he’s letting on,” David answered. “I’m just not sure what to do with that information. I can’t bring my direct superior in for questioning. Not without a damned good reason. And for all I know he’s not acting alone. There could be other officers involved. He’s been in and out of the state so often it’s hard to keep track, he must’ve had help.”

“Like DS Smith?” Mike asked softly, looking out at the rain, and David’s head snapped around, shocked that Mike seemed to know so much, but the man only shrugged. “He made a statement on the radio the other night, reassuring people that they had nothing to worry about, that there were no new Longboat Murders... but urging people to report any worrying activity.” He sighed heavily, his gaze turning to the block of rain-streaked flats. “And look what happened when we did. That bastard was aiming for me and got an innocent kid instead.” He sniffed and turned towards the window and David carefully looked away, giving the man a moment to get his emotions back under control. “I should go in and check on Helen,” he said eventually.

“She’s not there,” David told her, looking off in the same direction, a horrible aching discomfort growing in his chest as he thought over just how many innocent people had died. “She’s at Dillon’s.” An idea was sprouting in his mind and he fumbled for his bag, reaching awkwardly to the back seat until he found his small dictaphone and his notebook, flicking to the page where he had written out the pattern of the killings, the one Mike had told him about, the one Smith had remembered from the murders twenty years ago. “Adita said the blood spatter on the wall showed great force,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “A sharp blade, a long reach, a lot of heft. And high up on the wall too. Even with the rain she found enough traces of blood to indicate the severing of at least one major artery... which sounds like a beheading to me... And we found Jacob Toolin’s blood under a bookcase. It took four people to lift it so the killer couldn’t right it alone, hence the blood left behind but... pushing it over would be doable... so that’s crushing.” David stared at the list, the sound of the rain cancelled out by the rushing in his ears. “Eleanor Harris was burned, but... Patterns. There are always patterns. So who did he drown? Who did he... flay?”

“Oh god,” Mike breathed, “I don’t think I want to know,” but David shook his head, his eyes becoming unfocused as his mind tried to slot the clues in order. 

“I need to though. And I’ll tell you what we do know.” David took a steadying breath, turned on his voice recorder and focused his mind. “We’re looking for someone who is comfortable with this pattern, someone who knows how they want to kill each victim and is willing to use whatever is around them at the time to achieve the kill according to this fucked up list. That tells us that our killer has done this before. We knew that but it confirms that we are indeed looking for the original Longboat Killer and not a copycat. And if we’re looking for the same killer then we’re looking for a man in his fifties or sixties. The grey hair found on Candice Goodfellow’s body confirms. And I’m saying man because it’s statistically more probable and because of the height and strength needed to do this. There are plenty of women in that age bracket who might be physically capable of these acts but none who have been connected in any way to this case so far. So I’m saying it’s a man. The footage from the library cameras supports this, even if it can’t confirm much else. No other physical or DNA evidence was found on the three bodies recovered or at in Jacob Toolin’s office but what that tells us is that our killer is smart enough to cover their tracks. Whether they did the same thing twenty years ago or have learnt new tricks since is unknown because the old files are missing though Smith mentioned in his report that he remembered fingerprints being taken from the scene. This report must be treated with a certain amount of suspicion however, as the old case files were checked out of archives and the signature on the paperwork is that of DS Smith. Another indication of police involvement in these crimes is the inconsistency and misinformation coming from Missing Persons. The employer of one Madeline Magarey-Smith claimed that she filed a missing persons report when Mrs. Magarey-Smith was absent from work and couldn’t be reached but that report cannot be found. Ms. Helen Goodfellow attempted to report her daughter as missing but that report was never filed and she received subsequent false information from Missing Persons about the whereabouts of her daughter, even after Candice Goodfellow’s body was recovered from the southernmost overpass worksite. Therefore the killer must be either directly involved in this department or have contacts within this department. Unfortunately this information requires us to place under suspicion Detective Sergeant Tom Smith and Police Commissioner Marcus Campbell. They fit the profile as well as having been involved in the original investigation in to the six bodies recovered in nineteen ninety-seven and ninety-eight.” 

David turned off the voice recorder and sat back in his seat, feeling drained and on the edge of panic. He glanced at Mike, feeling sheepish, but the older man looked impressed. He leaned back, grabbed David’s water bottle from the back seat and handed it to him, waiting until David’d had a chance to take a long drink before he spoke.

“Now I see why you’re in such demand. That was a bit impressive.”

“Not really,” David said shakily. “I use the voice recorder because I find it easier to work through the process aloud, but I don’t always have someone I trust around to talk it through with. And even when I do,” he nodded toward Mike, “it helps to have it all recorded. Especially now. There’s just so much we still don’t know, and so much we might not get a chance to know. I don’t like not knowing.”

Mike nodded. “What I’d like to know is what poor Candice found that sparked all this. It was just a bunch of newspaper clippings wasn’t it?”

“Mmm,” David mumbled. “The only thing we were able to make out from them was a date on the oldest one, September nineteen eighty-two. They were from a local paper according to Harvey Bach, the Whitecove librarian, but he couldn’t tell me much else. He’s a right pain in the arse. I tried to get in contact with him earlier today but he wasn’t there. God knows where I’ll be able to find copies of those papers and there were no clues in her notes. Unless...”

“What?” Mike asked, and David saw the curiosity in his eyes, the need to know. The man might claim to be a cleaner rather than a journalist but that didn’t mean his instincts had died. When David didn’t give him anything after a moment he huffed, folding his arms again and looking across stubbornly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“This isn’t some kids detective agency,” David told him, though he couldn’t stop the smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth. “This isn’t some Scooby gang. I’m back on this case now and I need to do things by the book.”

“And yet here we are,” Mike replied drolly. “Sitting in your car, discussing the case.”

“Yeah,” David agreed, huffing out a laugh. “I’ll definitely get in trouble for that. But a hypothetical conversation is one thing. Bringing you along to crime scenes is another.” He paused. The rain had stopped and the sun was peeking through the clouds, low in the sky. The day was fast running out and there was still so much to do. “There is one thing though, one thing you can do for me.” He turned to Mike, all humour gone from his voice. “Head over to Dillon’s, keep an eye on him and Helen. I doubt anything’ll happen I’d just... I’d feel better knowing you were there.”

“Well that’s a turn around,” Mike muttered, but his lopsided grin told David all he really needed to know. “It’d be my pleasure. Just keep us in the loop, alright? As much as you’re able? I’ll head straight there but it’d be great if I could tell your man something to reassure him. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s a bit of a worrier.”

David tried to smile at the good natured comment but found he couldn’t. Dillon would definitely worry, likely already was, but David wasn’t sure what he could say that could actually help.

“Tell him the first thing I plan to do is find somewhere that serves decent take-away coffee. Then I’m going to the one place I know of that might have what we’re looking for. Philip Bingle’s house might not be a crime scene anymore but with any luck his daughter hasn’t cleared the place yet. When I was in there I saw newspapers dating back thirty years. With any luck I’ll find what we need because something tells me that there was more going on in the eighties than just a archeological dig somewhere in Scandinavia, and I need to find out what.”

Mike nodded. It was a long shot and they both knew it, but it was the best they had, and was something they could tell Dillon to keep his anxieties at bay. Sorting through old newspapers wasn’t exactly dangerous after all. Mike wished him good luck and trudged up the street to his van, his shoulders hunched against the sharp wind. David waited until he saw the man drive off before he picked up his mobile and flicked through his notebook again, looking for the page where he had written down the contact details for Philip Bingle’s daughter. There was so much to do and he had no intention of spending the rest of the day sorting through that house, but he would look, and if he got permission he would take any relevant papers with him to look through later. He needed to have a chat with Missing Persons, and a serious talk with Smith. He needed to call Campbell and see how the man reacted to David being back on the case despite his attempts to side line him, and he needed to check in with Adita to see if she’d had any luck identifying the owner of the grey hair, and whether the two most recent crime scenes had thrown up any more leads. So many phone calls to make and he didn’t relish any of them.

He looked down at his phone and the unopened messages from his sisters, asking how his date night had gone and whether he’d been brave enough yet to pop the question. He couldn’t answer those, not yet, couldn’t let himself be distracted thinking about what he wanted. There was so much to do, almost too much, he thought as his hand found it’s way in to his pocket, his fingers tracing the edge of the small ring box. So much that he needed to do before he could think about that. But there was time for coffee, that much at least was certain. He’d be able to put it all in order with a fresh shot of caffeine in his system. He just had to hope that no one got boiled while he was figuring out what he needed to do first.

*

“Dad was considered a level four hoarder. Mostly because I payed for his electricity and brought groceries around every fortnight. He would’ve sat in the dark and starved otherwise. He didn’t like me visiting any more regularly than that, because I used to insist on taking a bag of rubbish away with me each time. Rubbish was like treasure to dad. He resented me for taking any of it, no matter how foul. He started hoarding before I was born but it became a real problem about twenty years ago. He hadn’t left the house in ten years. I hadn’t been allowed in to the house for the last five. I’d drop off the groceries, take whatever trash he could bear to part with... I never even got to hug him... Dad didn’t like people touching him, or his stuff. I always hoped he’d see reason, get help. No chance of that now.”

David followed the woman along the cramped hallway, trying not to brush against the piles of boxes from frozen meals and salted crackers. There were crates full of wine bottles and beer bottles, garbage bags stacked high in the kitchen. There were so many ants and roaches on the kitchen floor that it seemed to be moving and he hurried past the room, trying not to breathe in. He had never appreciated Dillon’s tidiness more in his life and resolved to never leave his coffee cups littered around the house again. David knew he wasn’t a hoarder by any means, if anything he probably didn’t have enough mementos or personal items, but he wasn’t exactly tidy, and the further he walked in to Philip Bingle’s home the stronger the conviction that he needed to start doing his share of the housework grew.

“Level four hoarder, huh?” David muttered, sidestepping around a pile of broken and rusted pedestal fans. “How many levels-”

“Five,” she responded, glancing back at him quickly. Her nose and lips were scrunched tight, to try and block the smell David guessed, and when she looked at the damp stained walls around her the pain and discomfort was easy enough to see. She held her stomach protectively before turning back down the hallway in the direction of what in any other house would be the bedrooms. “He wasn’t a healthy man. But at least now it’s over. It’s not the way I would have wanted it to end but at least it’s over. His main newspaper room is just down here,” she gestured. “It used to be my room. Watch out for the floorboards there, there’s a lot of rot. Newspapers from the last seven to ten years are in the front hall and the sitting room but the older stuff is all in here. He always held on to papers, even when mum was alive, so there’s plenty in there.”

She showed him in to a room so entirely filled with newspapers that there was barely space for both of them to stand together in the doorway, looking around sadly. David could just make out the remains of pink wallpaper, curtains, a window, all hidden by piles of newspapers that reached almost to the ceiling. At least, David thought, this room didn’t smell as strongly as the rest of the house.

“I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble,” he told her truthfully. “And I really appreciate your giving me access to your father’s things. Would you mind if I moved some of this out in to the hall, or would you prefer it stayed within the room?”

“You can move it,” she told him, her lip turning up at the piles of mouldering papers. “I don’t really care what you do with any of it. I took the important things with me when I left home, there’s nothing left in here but junk. I’ll be signing the land over next week and this whole place will be being bulldozed within the month. Take what you want and lock up when you’re done.” She turned to leave, her head down and eyes red despite her dispassionate words, but couldn’t quite seem to walk away. 

“I will find the person responsible for your father’s death, Miss Bingle,” David told her. “And I’m so sorry that he died the way he did. I’m sorry for all you’ve had to go through.”

She nodded. “I appreciate that. Thanks. I don’t really like staying in here so I’m going to go. If you need anything else though, you can call me. Bye.”

David waited until he heard the front door click shut before he began the process of shifting stacks of yellowing papers. Each pile seemed to represent a year and within half an hour he’d managed to work his way back to the nineteen nineties, and in another half hour he’d located more than a dozen papers that featured stories about the original killings, several of them written by Mike. It took some heavy lifting, and some climbing, before he found papers dating back to the eighties. Eighty-two and eighty-five were the dates he was aiming for, were the dates on the paper found on Candice’s body, and on the back of the photograph from Professor Harris’s office. 

As he attempted to step across the drifting piles of aging paper to the very back of the room he felt them shift beneath him, and swore quietly as a page under his shoe ripped and he began to slide down with the cascade of newspapers in to the corner of the room. He took a deep steadying breath as he tried to regain his balance and braced his feet against the wall, picking up the closest paper to check the date, grinning when he saw January, nineteen eighty-six. At least he was getting close, and a quick search turned up the papers from the last few months of nineteen eighty-five. He set them aside and delved deeper, cringing away at the feel of the paper against his fingers, at the claustrophobia of it all, before gathering his nerve and reaching down to the oldest newspapers, sighing with relief when he found a tied off bundle dated nineteen eighty-two.

Grabbing as much as he could carry David half scrambled, half slid back across the mountain of newspapers, hating the dust and the insects that scattered around him. He’d considered sticking around a little longer to flick through what he’d gathered and decide whether he needed more, but the smell of the house and the newspapers and ink against his hands was making him horribly uncomfortable so instead he gathered up what he’d been able to find and made his way back through the house, trying not to breathe through his nose or step in anything rotten.

Loading the papers in to the boot of his car, David looked up at the cloud filled sky. It had been raining on and off for most of the day and he was looking forward to heading home to a hot shower. And other things, his brain prodded hopefully, and David grinned at the prospect of being able to arrive home before seven and actually help out with the meal prep. He could grab a bottle of wine on his way perhaps, since it was likely that Mike and Helen would be staying for dinner. It was a chance to actually be a good host and good friend. He’d made most of his phone calls already and the ones he had left he could make in the car. He could already imagine Dillon’s surprised expression when he actually arrived home at a normal hour.

His phone began to buzz as he shut the boot and he pulled it out of his pocket quickly, noting that it was Smith’s home number. Smith was one of the people he’d been meaning to call but he was surprised that Tom was calling him, the man had been sent home and David didn’t think he’d be keen to talk about the case, not since he was now the one on administrative leave. 

“DI Sharma,” he answered casually. “You alright, Smith? Wait! Slow down!”

Most of what he could make out was sobbing, and the distant sounds of yelling and sirens and he pulled the phone away from his ear to reread the caller I.D. because this couldn’t be Tom Smith. And then, gradually, the sobbing eased and he recognised the voice of Sally Smith, Tom’s youngest daughter, though it took him a moment to understand what she was saying.

“Dad said to call. The ambulance are here. He’s riding with mum but only one person can ride in the ambulance. Dad said to call you. He said you’d come.”

David opened the car door and threw himself inside, starting the engine before he even had the door shut or his seatbelt on. The Smith’s didn’t live far, ten minutes at most, but the traffic would slow him down, and he swore quietly as he pulled out on to the main road roughly, earning himself several honks from angry drivers.

“I’m on my way now, just hold on. What’s happened, Sally?” he said hurriedly, moving through the lanes as fast as he could. “What’s happened to mum and dad?”

“Mum was washing the dishes, but there was no hot water coming through,” Sally explained carefully and David pictured the young woman as she spoke, the way she liked to run her fingers through her long pink hair, the way she readjusted her glasses when she spoke. She’d been so delighted to meet him and Dillon when they’d come around for dinner because, she’d said, most people rushed her or talked over her or treated her like a baby just because she spoke a little slower than normal, but David and Dillon never did. She was small, like her mum, but with a big personality and tremendous skill with a paintbrush, and David hated the distress he could hear in her voice. “She went out to check the water heater. It’s new, it’s on the roof, with the solar panels. Dad offered to go but mum said ‘stay put’ so he did. He was so sad all day and she wanted him to take it easy. Then there was screaming, and a loud bang. When I got outside mum was... mum was... on the ground. She was screaming. The water heater had cracked. She was covered in boiling water. Then she stopped screaming. The ambulance is taking her now. I don’t know what to do.”

David felt his heart begin to pound so hard he worried it was marching up his throat and in to his mouth. He wanted to be sick. He wanted to scream. But he couldn’t do that, so instead he reached across his dashboard with shaking hands and flicked on his siren and lights, pushing his way through the traffic until the cars in front of him moved out of his lane and he was able to speed through.

“How is your mum now, Sally?” he asked, trying and failing to sound calm.

“She’s going in the ambulance now. Dad says to wait.”

“Is there anything your dad wants me to know?” David tried again, managing to keep his voice even this time. He was five minutes away, less if he could maneuver around the lights. 

“He says for you to get here and take charge. Call in the cavalry he said,” She sobbed again and David wished he could go faster so that she didn’t have to cry alone, but she took in another gasping breath and David could imagine her pulling herself together to do what her dad needed her to do. “He and mum just left. He said you’d take me to the hospital?”

“And that is exactly what I’ll do, okay?” David told her reassuringly, nodding even though she couldn’t see him. “And mum’s probably going to need a bag packed if she’s spending the night in the hospital. D’you think you could pack that for me, Sally?”

He heard a sniff down the line before she answered. “Of course I can, I’m not a child.”

“I know,” David answered. “But you’ve had a huge shock, it’s normal to feel helpless and not know what to do. I’m nearly there now so I need you to pack a bag with things that you and your mum and dad might need. Phone chargers and wallets and toothbrushes and things like that. I’m going to call in some back-up, the cavalry, like your dad wanted, okay? Will you be alright if I hang up the phone?”

“Yes,” Sally told him quietly. “I can do all that.”

“Thanks, Sally,” David told her gently. “You’re doing well, okay? And I’ll be at your place in a minute or two.”

He hung up reluctantly, hating how terrified she’d sounded, and called through quickly for police attendance. There was no way he was counting this as a coincidence, no way in his mind that it could be an accident, not when it fit the pattern so well. He just had to hope that Margot Smith hadn’t been burned too badly, and that the killer didn’t decide to try again before he had a chance to figure out what to do next.


	14. Chapter 14

David stared at the little family tableau, huddled together under the dim ICU lighting. When he and Sally had arrived at the hospital Margot had still been in emergency, in an overflowing resuscitation room surrounded by doctors and nurses all moving frantically and calling out loudly, yelling numbers and asking for equipment and assistance. It had made David feel weak at the knees, the familiarity of it, and for a moment the dizziness had started to overwhelm him before he’d seen the stricken look on Sally’s face and realised that he needed to be the strong one and that he didn’t have time to get caught up in nightmares of the past when there were people who needed him in the present.

So instead he’d marched himself over to the nearest nurse, flashed his badge, and asked where Margot’s husband was. That badge had gotten them past the check in desk and nurses’s station faster than any polite request could and David kept his jaw firm and his eyes dark as he made it clear that he wasn’t going to get out of her way until he’d seen Tom Smith and gotten his daughter to him safely. Sally had shot him a look, one that warned him that she wasn’t a child and could get by on her own, and David knew that she probably had to deal a lot with people infantilizing her, but he would have to apologise later; if he tried to do it right then he’d cry and he couldn’t deal with that.

The nurse had taken them to a row of chairs in the corner of the resuscitation room where they were out of the way but could still see what was happening, and David felt the urge to scream or vomit rise up again at the sight of Tom sitting there with his head in his hands. He hadn’t known what to do but Tom had looked up and stumbled to his feet, pulling first his daughter and then David in to a crushing, tear-stained hug. The next hour had been a blur and David had watched as the burns team were rushed in, the damage assessed, and treatment begun. 

Tom had pressed his mobile in to David’s hands when they were informed that Margot was stable enough to be moved to the ICU, begging David to call his other two children, to let them know what had happened and to come straight away, and then he and Sally had followed the gurney and the team of nurses and doctors toward the lift, leaving David alone in the corridor, unsure of who to call first, and how to explain what had actually happened. Tom had told him what he could about the incident, which lined up with Sally’s account, and David had recorded it all, not trusting himself to be able to write legibly or not leave out something vital. Tom had glared at him fiercely when he’d tried to ask if perhaps it hadn’t been an accident, and had told him angrily, tearfully, that the Longboat Killer had never doused anyone in boiling water, but Sally had looked less sure.

“I thought I saw someone, just for a moment,” she’d told him hurriedly, clutching at his sleeve. “I pulled mum out, the water was still falling on her. I pulled her away and looked up. I thought I saw someone on the roof.” David had nodded, thanked her, and watched them walk away.

And when Tom’s other two children had arrived he’d been there to show them up to the ICU, to where their mother lay sedated, just a few beds away from where Dillon had spent those first few, terrifying days. Days when he’d felt unable to sleep or eat, days when he’d thought the beeping of the machines around Dillon’s bed would drive him insane. The days when he’d realised that he did truly love the man lying in the bed before him, and that he had betrayed him, hurt him, and almost cost him his life. He couldn’t look at it anymore, at the ward, at the bed, and couldn’t stop the waves of nausea that were overtaking him, or the prickling heat around his throat. He raced around the corner to the nearest visitors bathroom, locked himself inside, fell to his knees in front of the toilet, and was violently ill. He needed to pull himself together, needed to focus on the facts and solve the case, needed to do his job, his brain demanded, whilst his body just shook and sobbed and ached. He needed to get up and say his goodbyes to Tom, to get back to the case, instead he slumped down to sit on the floor, pulled his phone from his pocket, and called Dillon, just to hear his voice and know he was alright.

***

Dillon paced around the empty kitchen, ignoring the pain in his hips and leg, ignoring the tight, gnawing pain in his chest, and trying desperately to ignore David’s words playing in a loop in his head, that Tom’s wife, Margot, had been rushed to hospital, that he had been with them for the last few hours, that he was sorry that he hadn’t made it home for dinner. Dillon sniffed as a tear escaped and began to track down his cheek. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard David sound so vulnerable, or so upset, and what made it worse was knowing that on some level it had been Dillon who had set him off. 

Through all of the weeks Dillon had been in hospital David had been by his side, upbeat and flirtatious and caring, making the whole situation feel less terrifying and always, seemingly, perfectly fine. Hearing David struggling to breathe as he told Dillon how overwhelmed he felt to be back in the ICU, looking at the bed that had once been Dillon’s, watching his friend cry and hold his wife’s hand, was almost too much to bear. Dillon had no memory of the first few days after his rescue from Martin White’s cabin. The last thing he remembered was David holding him and stroking his hair, the next was waking up in the ICU to David’s tired but smiling face, as a doctor told him about the damage to his pelvis. He’d been intubated, because White had attempted to strangle him, but it had been removed before he was really lucid enough to feel it, and though the pain had been horrible and recovery slow, he hadn’t been awake for the worst of it.

David had been there through it all though, had seen him at his worst, and despite protesting for a whole year that he was completely fine, it suddenly seemed to be coming back to bite him. He had told Dillon he was coming straight home, that he was twenty minutes away at most, but the time on the microwave told him that it had been half an hour since he’d hung up the phone, which officially gave Dillon permission to start panicking. When he heard footsteps and a voice outside he actually jumped, gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain through his pelvis, but quickly recognised the voice as David’s, so limped through the house with his crutch to unlock the door for him.

He opened the door to see David holding his mobile between his cheek and shoulder, his arms laden with old newspapers, looking exhausted and like he’d been repeatedly running his hands through his hair until it stood up straight from his head in disorganised,half-teased curls. Dillon gave him a quick, half-smile as he stepped back for David to stumble in, dumping the pile of dusty papers on to the coffee table as he struggled to keep his phone from hitting the floor.

“Yes, sir,” David mumbled, giving Dillon an apologetic look as he walked quickly back across the room to lock the front door. “I appreciate that you feel I didn’t follow protocol but as everyone else was otherwise occupied and I was already within easy distance of the library, I-” 

David winced at the voice coming down the line and Dillon bit his lip, hating how drained his boyfriend looked. David’s skin had turned from it’s usual rich brown to a faded, tired grey and his shoulders were drooping, his satchel dangling on the verge of falling to the floor. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had kissed the length of his body that morning and who had been so excited to be going back to work.

“I’ll go pop the kettle on,” he whispered as David pinched the bridge of his nose. He wanted to say more, to step forward and give him a hug perhaps, but David sighed as the one-sided phone conversation continued so he walked out as quietly as he could to give David the space it looked like he needed.

He could still hear David’s murmured responses from the kitchen, and he focused on filling the kettle and setting out two mugs to block the sound of David’s uneven breathing, and his own disordered thoughts. He desperately wanted to know that David was alright, and what exactly had set off his breakdown in a hospital bathroom, but even thought David was home, he wasn’t really; he was working and Dillon wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with that.

“No, I haven’t had any contact with Internal Affairs, sir, and at no point did I exchange information with HR about the Canberra investigation when discussing my return from the leave you put me on-” Dillon heard the anger rising in David’s voice as he dropped a chamomile tea bag in to David’s favourite mug. “I was following leads, sir, and attending two murder sites, I wasn’t acting outside of my department or my role, and I have a lot evidence now about the Longboat Killer. Evidence I would really like to talk to you about.”

The pause that followed reminded Dillon of storms rolling in across the hills, heavy and full of electricity, and he stood in the kitchen, staring at the steam rising out of the two not quite full cups of tea, unsure of what to do next. David sounded angry and desperate and Dillon didn’t know what to do to make any of it better. 

He didn’t move until he heard what sounded distinctly like a phone being thrown on the couch and when he walked back in to the lounge room, holding the mug carefully in front of him, David was sitting slumped and cross-legged in the middle of the floor. Dillon wondered how he could manage to look so young - like a school boy waiting to be scolded - and yet so worn out at the same time, and came to stand in front of him, waiting to be acknowledged before he passed down the steaming cup of tea.

“I like your new stick,” David mumbled, taking the tea. “‘S fancy.”

“Yeah,” Dillon sighed, turning back to the kitchen. “I’ve, I’ve, I’ve upgraded my cripple club membership. Helen’s totally jealous.” He swallowed the bitter laugh that tried to escape, walking as fast as he was able in to the kitchen and returning with a plate of his most successful gulab jamun from the day, placing the sticky, golden desserts on the coffee table where David would see them. This wasn’t the time to moan about the fact that he seemed to be going backwards in his recovery rather than forwards. David had supported him through so much and it had taken a toll; Dillon didn’t want to make things worse by seeming ungrateful or down on himself.

When he returned from the kitchen a third time, with his own cup of tea held out carefully in front of him, David was staring at the food with an odd expression of longing and Dillon wished he could smooth away the worry lines crowding his boyfriend’s face. Instead he put his mug on the table and very carefully lowered himself down to the floor.

“What’re you doing?” David asked him, blinking like he was waking from a dream. “You shouldn’t be sitting on the floor, it’s bad for your leg.”

“My, my leg’ll cope,” Dillon told him, shuffling himself carefully forward until he could lean his back against the coffee table and place his hand on David’s knee. “How are you?”

David looked up, his lips pursed tight, and for a moment Dillon thought that he would actually try to claim that he was fine, that nothing was wrong, but David had never been much good at hiding the truth from him. He opened his mouth, eyes filling quickly with tears, and then, it seemed to Dillon, the dam broke, and every fear and worry David’d had over the last year and a half came pouring out. How overwhelmed he felt, being in an office where no one seemed to want him, working under a boss who seemed to have deliberately refrained from partnering him up with someone, and who constantly demeaned and undermined him; working a case that seemed designed to make him suspect his fellow officers, tracking a killer whose behaviour seemed to be escalating rapidly, and who seemed to be targeting people he knew and cared about. 

His breath hitched and Dillon thought he might have said all he wanted to say, but a moment later he watched as David put his head in his hands and admitted that he missed his family and was struggling with how to function in his first long term relationship, and the shame that he felt that he was in his thirties and was only just entering his first real relationship and what that said about him as a person. The words seemed to tumble from nowhere, as if David hadn’t been expecting them until they had been said and his fingers curled against his forehead until Dillon worried he was hurting himself, the silence returning like a thick fog all around them.

When he finally lowered his hands and met Dillon’s eyes he looked distraught. He told him, in a voice barely above a whisper, about how terrifying it had been to be back at the hospital, back in the ICU, surrounded by doctors and critically ill patients and frightened family members, and Dillon opened his arms and allowed David to shuffle forward and press himself against Dillon’s side, his head pressed to the crook of Dillon’s neck as he finally admitted how terrified he’d been, that he would lose Dillon so soon after finding him.

“I don’t want to lose you,” David whispered, and Dillon ran his fingers carefully through David’s wild hair, keeping his arms tight around him, pressing kisses to his forehead to hide his own sobs. “I don’t ever want to lose you. And I know I’m not great at the whole boyfriend thing but I swear I’m trying. And there’s something I want to ask you, something I need to ask you, but I don’t know if it’s the right time, don’t know if I’m rushing us or seeing things that aren’t there. I just know that I love you so much and the thought of losing you, remembering how close I was to losing you, makes me sick to my soul.”

Gently, not wanting to cause David any further grief, Dillon loosened his arms and took David’s face in his hands, lowering his own chin until their noses were aligned and he could place delicate kisses to David’s full, tear wet lips. “I love you,” he breathed softly between kisses, turning his head to kiss the corner of David’s mouth, the spot where the dimple appeared whenever he smiled. “I love you,” he whispered again as he stroked his thumbs over David’s cheeks and kissed him a little deeper. “I love you,” he said more forcefully as he captured David’s lips in a deeper, more passionate kiss, fire running down his spine to his groin and then spreading outwards through his entire body at the way David so willingly submitted.

He carried on kissing him for as long as he dared, until his thigh began to prickle with pins and needles and his back began to protest, carding his hands through David’s thick hair with more confidence until David pulled back, gasping and flushed and so beautiful Dillon wanted to push him to the floor and strip his shirt from his chest right there. But he didn’t. David was shaking and more emotional than Dillon had seen him, as well as tired, and most likely hungry as well.

“I’m not... I’m not going anywhere, Love. You’re, you’re, you’re not going to lose me. I love you. But you should, um, you should drink your tea before it goes cold,” he said softly. “And I, I, I want you to try these and, um, tell me what you think,” he added, reaching around to grab the plate of sweet, syrupy dumplings. “I’m guessing you, um, made time for, for, for coffee but not food today.” David grinned up at him at that, a look that was equal parts sheepish and mischievous and Dillon tried not to squirm too obviously at a grin so full of promise. “And then... then I reckon it’ll be time for you to, to, to call it a night, don’t you?”

“I should go through these old newspapers,” David admitted tiredly, carefully taking one of the gulab jamun and stuffing it in to his mouth. His groan of appreciation was everything Dillon had been hoping for as well as making it even harder to sit still and ignore his body’s growing desire.

“You should, um, should sleep so that you can actually function tomorrow,” Dillon told him sensibly. “And, and, and besides, I don’t like sleeping alone. We’re sharing this house now, and, and a bed. And I don’t like sleeping alone.”

David lobbed another gulab jamun into his mouth before leaning in to press a sticky, sweet kiss to his lips and Dillon let out a laugh, raising his hand to cup David’s jaw, staring in to his tired yet beautiful love-filled eyes.

“I need a shower first though,” David insisted, “then bed. Promise.”

“Good,” Dillon told him, kissing him delicately to savour the sugary taste still on his lips. “And, Love... I’ve been meaning to, to, um, ask you something too. Just so you know.”

***

David shuffled through the dark house, using his phone to light his path as he made his way from the bedroom to the lounge room. It was four in the morning, which as far as he was concerned, didn’t actually count as morning at all, and by rights he should have been asleep, but he’d been jolted awake from an unpleasant dream and hadn’t been able to stop his brain long enough to get back to sleep. He’d tried to get comfortable but had worried that his tossing and turning would wake Dillon so had eventually opted to get up and see if he could tire his brain out with a bit of reading. Campbell wanted to see him bright and early at the station and David knew he needed to come armed with as much evidence as he could. If Campbell was involved somehow in the killings then he needed to be ready for a fight. 

He turned on the dim corner lamp, made himself a cup of tea, grabbed some left-overs out of the fridge, and made himself comfortable, cross-legged on the couch with a stack of the old newspapers. A moment later Trouble jumped up and settled on his lap, purring loud as a motorbike engine and kneading his feet until he finally seemed satisfied that David wouldn’t be going anywhere and settling down to sleep. 

He scratched the sleeping animal behind the ears, wondering when he’d become a cat person. It was Dillon’s doing, he was sure, more proof of his good influence, along with healthier food, crying, and talking about his feelings. He grinned wryly at that, still slightly embarrassed about how much crying he had done, how much he’d revealed of himself. He hadn’t even realised he was so stressed, or upset by so many things, until he’d opened his mouth and let it all out and he’d worried that Dillon would be upset or angry. Instead he’d been wonderful. He’d been gentle and understanding and when David had emerged from the shower, finally clean of the stink of crime scenes and filthy houses and fear sweat, Dillon had been waiting for him, reclined on their bed wearing a nervous, stubborn expression and not much else.

David knew what it meant for Dillon to make himself so vulnerable, and he knew that doing so was Dillon’s way of saying that he really wasn’t going anywhere, and that he respected and cherished that David had made himself vulnerable by speaking about his feelings. It had been near-overwhelming and despite his best intentions, and professed desire to move slowly, he hadn’t been able to restrain his need to touch and taste and be as close to Dillon as it was possible to be. When he had eventually collapsed down on to the bed, shaking and sweating and breathless all over again, he’d felt giddy and unable to stop smiling, and beneath him, flushed and red lipped, looking up at him so adoringly, Dillon had told him again that he loved him, and that he wasn’t going anywhere and David had hugged him so tight it had made Dillon laugh and squirm and tickle him in retaliation. 

When they had actually settled down to sleep, snuggled tightly together with Dillon’s pale, warm back against his chest, David had actually thought that he was tired enough, and content enough, to sleep through the night. Bad dreams had put an end to that, just as they always did, but instead of lying frustrated in bed, David had decided to get up and look through the old newspapers.

The dregs of his tea were cold and his feet had fallen asleep by the time he found anything interesting. He’d started with the earliest papers, reading page after page of local Adelaide news, stories that had meant something once, to the people involved and the people who’d read them, but which now seemed trivial and uninteresting. When he finally turned a thin, yellowing page and saw the article describing the young students lucky enough to have won a place on an international archeological dig, to be headed up by one Professor Eleanor Harris, he could hardly believe his luck. There was a small photograph, the fading ink making it difficult to make out details as well as he would have liked, but the faces were recognisable, and the caption beneath confirmed that Marcus Campbell was one of the young men heading off to Scandinavia, along with his younger step-brother, Harvey, and several others.

David set it aside, hoping there’d be some way to find out if this had been one of the clippings Candice had taken with her that night, and carried on reading, buoyed on by the discovery. The second article was accompanied by the same photograph that he had taken from Eleanor Harris’s office, and David noted Campbell, and the man who was apparently his younger brother, staring out at him, Campbell serious whilst his brother was smiling wide and innocent. He put it with the first article and carried on, flicking through pages and pages, sure now that there was more he’d be able to find, unwilling to stop even though his eyes are dry and irritated, even when the pile of papers dwindled and the sound of magpies singing started up outside the front window. His phone told him it was past five a.m. which meant he would either have to stop in order to catch an hour’s rest before work or carry on and just shoulder the lack of sleep. 

Running his hands through his hair and wincing when his fingers caught in the tangles of his curls, David turned back to his papers, stroking Trouble absently as he scanned the article titles, not sure, anymore, if he’d find anything that would fit the shape and length of the third clipping they had found on Candice’s body. He actually yelled out when he found it, then yelped when Trouble dug his claws in to his thigh, but even that couldn’t dampen the sudden pounding of his heart. 

There was no photograph with the article, and it was much smaller, but it was about a case of plagiarism that had led to the expulsion of a top student. The student had argued the charge, was seeking legal action against the university and the professor in question, the article said, and then mentioned that several threats had been made against the professor, who just happened to be Eleanor Harris. Professor Harris’s car had been damaged, and her office set on fire, but the police were claiming that the student couldn’t be tied to the attacks. The student wasn’t named, was only referred to as a local young man, an exceptional student, one of Professor Harris’s most promising PhD candidates, someone who had been with her on her trip to Northern Europe the previous year. 

David set the article with the others. He would need to find some way of discovering more about Campbell’s past, and whether he had been to university. When he got in to the station he would be able to find out more about Campbell’s brother as well, perhaps track him down and find out what Campbell had been like back then, how he had felt about Professor Harris. It wasn’t as much to go on as he would have liked, but it was better than nothing, and would be enough to show to some of Campbell’s equals, and hopefully bring the man in to custody. It was going to be hard, there was no denying it, and he was sure that Campbell would do everything within his power to drag him down and discredit him, but there was no way he was going to let it go, not after so many deaths, and so much pain. 

He stood awkwardly, his feet tingling and prickling as the blood rushed back in to them, and limped back toward the bedroom. He wasn’t likely to get much sleep, Dillon was working the morning shift which meant that his alarm would be going off in an hour, but it was better than nothing, and David suddenly felt tired enough to fool the dead. He dragged himself under the covers, humming low when Dillon turned to run a hand over his side and press his forehead to David’s chest. In the morning he would confront Campbell, he promised himself, first thing in the morning, and then it would all, hopefully, be over.

***

Marcus Campbell scrubbed at the tired skin of his face. He had come so close, so close to getting away with it all, and now everything he had worked for was collapsing and he could see no way to hide the truth, to stop the carnage, to finish his career with pride and dignity and the respect he deserved. It wasn’t his fault, he reminded himself glaring down at the reams of paper he’d been handed by the forensic accounting team, there were plenty of people he could blame, who deserved the blame. Nosey Canberra lackeys for one thing, dirty foreign detectives for another.

The very thought of Sharma made him want to throttle the man; squeeze his throat until he went limp and gave up trying to ruin everything he’d spent his life perfecting. He’d suspected the detective was a plant from the first, an outsider sent in to unbalance the team he’d so carefully put together, sticking his large beaked nose in where it didn’t belong. At least none of his team had talked, Campbell had made sure of that, his people were loyal to him, but Sharma was persistent, and wouldn’t stop until he’d uncovered everything, and Campbell couldn’t be having that.

It all came back to control in the end. Sharma was trying to take it from him, along with the pencil pushers in Canberra, but he was smarter than them, he could keep them on their toes a little longer. They’d found proof that he’d moved money around but not why or to whom. He still had the upper hand - just. He had worked so hard to do the right thing, to do what had to be done, had given up so much, dedicated his life to it, he couldn’t lose now. His mother had drilled it in to him all his life, to do the right thing, to do what was necessary. He’d hated watching her die, but he’d still followed her instructions and done the right thing. No one had ever found her. No one had ever suspected. He’d made sure of that.

He looked out through the kitchen window to the mound that was the focus of his overgrown yard. The grass had long smothered it, reclaimed it, until it reminded him of the mounds back in Denmark. He had wanted to badly to go in to archaeology as a boy, but it hadn’t been his path, his mother had a different plan, but he had been able to enjoy it from the sidelines, at least for a few years, just as his brother had. They had indulged that passion and that love together and nothing had made him happier than seeing his younger brother smile, but now, he feared, there would be no more smiles, not for either of them.

His hands itched, closing in to fists when what he wanted to do wring the neck of the man who’d destroyed a lifetime of careful planning. He wouldn’t get a chance to, of course. He let his eyes wander across to the thick rope slung over the only other chair in the room. There was an order to these things, he had long ago come to terms with that, even if he wished that the need to follow that order could have stayed buried. It was Sharma’s fault, but he would get what he deserved soon enough. And then that little poof he doted on would cry and cry, and Campbell would be able to stop thinking about the fact that his Force, the place he had dedicated himself to even if it hadn’t been his first choice, had been infiltrated by the lowest scum of their society. 

Soft footsteps behind him caught his attention but he didn’t turn around, there was only one person in the world it could be. The sound of their footfalls were as familiar to him as his own, and their angular shadow moved across the wall like the ghost of a pleasant memory. 

“There’s tea in the pot,” he grunted, “but we’ve run out of bread. I’ll have to nip out and get some once the shops open.” He took another gulp of his own tea, wincing at how acrid it tasted, then rubbed his hand against his face yet again, trying to scrub away the deep tiredness that had settled over him. His skin felt almost numb, his hands far away, as if they belonged to someone else - hands made to do their duty. “I spoke to Sharma last night, sounded like he was crying.” He sneered at that, at the man’s weakness, that he would dare to act like a detective, like an officer of the law, when he was a crying, weak, travesty. “He wants to show me everything he’s discovered, which won’t be much. It’ll make it easier to take care of though. Can’t have any more slip ups or accidents now, can we?”

“No,” came the voice behind him. “No, we can’t have that.”


	15. Chapter 15

David woke to the heavy drumming of rain on the roof, quickly followed by a dip in the bed and cold fingers sliding over his skin. He jumped, turning to pull Dillon toward him, frowning at the feel of the thick track suit that prevented him from running his hands over Dillon’s body. He didn’t open his eyes until he leant forward for a kiss and was tickled by Dillon’s wet hair, leaning back and blinking at the man in the bed beside him.

“Why have you been out in the rain, you’ll catch cold,” he croaked, pulling Dillon in close to warm him up.

“That’s not how, how, how, um, colds work,” Dillon told him, chuckling as he leant forward to kiss him softly. “And I was, I was feeding the birds. They were hungry and, and it’s not their fault it’s raining. It’s actually, um, really nice out there. I like this weather.”

“I know,” David groaned, tucking his face into the crook of Dillon’s neck. “You’re strange. I love you.” 

He moved his hands under the hem of Dillon’s jumper and at the same time began to press lingering kisses to the corner of his jaw, loving the way it made him shiver and lean in closer, the way his hands found their way in to David’s hair and began to tug. He’d never understood the way Dillon seemed to love his hair, it was a tightly curled mess as far as he was concerned, but Dillon genuinely adored it and David wasn’t about to argue with him when it meant that Dillon pulled on his hair and scratched at his scalp the way he was doing just then. 

He lifted Dillon’s jumper, hoping to coax him out of his clothes and kissing him as he went, and felt Dillon smile against his lips, then jumped when behind him his phone alarmed and began to vibrate across the bedside table. 

“No,” he groaned, redoubling his efforts until Dillon was laughing and squirming in his arms. “No, five more minutes!”

“You need to get up,” Dillon whispered against his lips. “We, we, we, we both need to. Work awaits.”

“I am up,” David growled, pushing his hips forward so that Dillon could feel his erection, loving the gasp he got in return.

“That’s, that’s, that’s not what I mean, Love,” Dillon chuckled darkly. “I didn’t want to, to, to wake you until I, I absolutely had to. I um, know you were up last night. I just hope you found what you needed to.”

“I think I did,” David told him, returning to Dillon’s jaw to kiss a trail down his neck to his collar. “Well, I think I found the same articles Candice did at Whitecove. All the evidence points toward someone who had access to police files and influence within departments. Smith’s signature is on the archives documents but I don’t think it was him. I think he’s being set up. I think the killer tried to take out Smith and got his wife instead. I think I know what I have to do.”

Dillon took David’s face in his hands, raising it so that he could look at him properly, his dark eyes narrowed as he searched David’s face, his jaw set stubbornly. “You... you’ll be careful though, right? I’ve got, um, I’ve got plans for us this evening and, and, and I need you to be okay. I, I, I need you to come home.”

David felt a warmth rush through him and leaned in to kiss Dillon soundly on his beautiful mouth. “I’ll do my best,” he gasped when Dillon gave him a moment to pull back. “I know I’ve been rubbish at the whole boyfriend thing, Love, but I want to do better. I will do better. I promise. I’ll even bring wine. What would you prefer, red or white?”

“Mmm, red,” Dillon said with decisive nod. “And you, you, you’re good at the whole, um, the whole boyfriend thing. I know I’m not... not the easiest person to, to to-”

“You are the easiest person in the world to love,” David told him, unable to hide how he was feeling. “Trust me, Dill,” he whispered, his throat suddenly tight. “I love you. And I will make it home for dinner.”

Dillon grinned up at him, so gentle, so open, and David couldn’t hold himself back from kissing him again. His day was going to be horribly busy, he was adding items to his to-do list even as his hands returned to the hem of Dillon’s jumper, but even if he did have a meeting with Campbell scheduled for the morning, there were some things that were more important. Things like making Dillon gasp and arch his back, making delicate whining noises that made David’s cock throb desperately. Things like making Dillon’s eyes roll back in to his head when his fingers reached Dillon’s nipples. This was definitely the most important thing he could possibly be doing first thing in the morning.

*

David approached Commissioner Campbell’s house cautiously both because of the nature of the phone call that had led him there and because the thought of walking in to his boss’s house filled him with the same sense of dread that he’d felt when his year six teacher, Mr. Patel, had invited his family over for dinner. Nothing appeared out of place as far as he could see, and Campbell’s car was in the drive way. It all seemed perfectly normal, except that there was no reason for Campbell to be at home when he’d told David to be in his office at nine a.m. sharp. 

David had been there, even if he’d missed breakfast to do it, waiting at his desk for Campbell to show up, but he hadn’t. There were four other officers at the desks around him, watching him, so it seemed to David, and eventually he had asked whether anyone had heard from their boss that morning. No one had been particularly forth coming but David was used to that so had filled the time writing up his reports and confirming that the articles he had found matched the shape and size of the clippings found on Candice’s body. He’d made as many phone calls and answered as many emails as he could bear to before escaping his desk to visit Adita, to check on her progress and to hear her confirm that the blade that had impaled Candice was the same one that had likely beheaded Police Constable Spence. A small piece of Spence’s skin and tissue had been recovered, which excited Adita but made David glad that he hadn’t had time for breakfast, but the sample had held traces of Candice’s DNA. Their killer hadn’t cleaned his blade very well, it seemed, and David couldn’t help but feel smug that the mythical and mysterious Longboat Killer wasn’t quite so untouchable after all. He’d just had a way of ensuring that any evidence was lost or erased, until now.

The call had come through as he was heading back to the office from lunch so David had gone straight out. No one in his department would care that he hadn’t come back, they’d likely be pleased. So instead of telling anyone where he was going he’d loaded his lunchtime shopping in to his car - a bottle of wine, and several framed photographs to add to the mantlepiece at home - and had driven south, trying to understand what Campbell’s brother could have meant when he’d called David to say that there had been ‘an incident’ and that his brother needed help.

He had expected to be met at the door. or to find that he’d been beaten to the scene by an ambulance, but the street was silent save for the whisper of the wind through the bowed gum trees and the rush of rainwater along the gutter. There was no sign of Campbell’s mysterious brother, but there were other signs to make David’s skin crawl. The house was no more than a ten minute walk from Helen Goodfellow’s and a two minute walk from the Whitecove library yet Campbell had never mentioned his proximity to the crime scene. The house itself was small - old and modest - and not at all in keeping with what David had pictured; the fence around it was high and went almost to the street while most others stopped several metres back, and the curtains in the windows were heavy and dark. And the door, the door was ever so slightly ajar.

David stopped in the driveway, considering. He could call for back-up but if he was wrong about the situation and entered Campbell’s house with a bunch of officers the man would find some way of burying him and his career, he was certain. He couldn’t call Smith, he’ already spoken to the man that morning and learned that Margot was in a stable but serious condition, and that Tom wasn’t leaving her side for anything. He could try calling the city station but was unlikely to receive an enthusiastic response and they were too far away to be of much real use. Still, something about the place bothered him and he didn’t like the thought of going in without any sort of back-up plan.

Keeping his eyes on the front door David pulled his phone from his pocket and put a call through to the small local station. They rarely had more than one or two officers on duty there, and none of them particularly liked him, but it was better than nothing. He waited impatiently for the call to be answered and then asked to be put through to the duty sergeant, explaining to her that he was at a house in her local area and that if he didn’t call her back within half an hour she was to send in back-up. She hadn’t been happy about it, had huffed and sighed, until David mentioned the address. She would come in person, she told him, if Campbell was in any sort of trouble. 

David ended the call and stared back at the house. He’d had an email from a profiler in Canberra that morning who had agreed with his assessment of the case but who had warned him of the dangers unique to a killer who had gone unchecked for so long. For all they knew the brother wasn’t even in the picture anymore. The voice down the line had been familiar, the vagueness of the words had been strange, but David hadn’t been able to ignore a call for help. As he took a step closer to the house the stillness of the afternoon was interrupted by a sudden roll of thunder, followed a few seconds later by a flash of lightening and David saw a flicker of movement in the doorway.

His mind immediately dragged him back, to the night of Dillon’s abduction, to walking in to the small cabin and finding Dillon’s blood across the floor. He felt his throat tighten, sweat breaking out across his shoulders and the back of his neck as he remembered, too vividly, the panic he’d felt that night. It was a struggle to drag his eyes away from the door but the urge to text Dillon won out and he looked down at his phone, typing hurriedly, needing to let Dillon know that he loved him.  
‘I love you. I don’t know if I say it enough. I love you.’

He stared at the words wide eyed after sending them, reading them over, not daring to breathe until, less than a minute later, a reply appeared.

‘I love you too. You say it enough, but I never get tired of hearing it. R u ok?’

‘I’m fine,’ David lied, trying to steady his breathing using the techniques Dillon’s psychologist had taught them both, trying to understand why his body had decided to turn on him when he needed to remain strong and in control. ‘And I’m on schedule to be home on time too. I’ve already got the wine. Need anything else?’

‘Only you. xx’

David smiled, his breath escaping in a huff through his nose, feeling calmer than he had a minute ago. He put his phone back in his pocket and considered reaching for his pistol but decided against it. He didn’t want to go in too hard or fast, and he didn’t want to make any mistakes he would regret later. 

He walked up the driveway and then across the path, approaching the open door cautiously, and then called out. “Hello? This is Detective Inspector Sharma with Adelaide Metropolitan Police, responding to a call from this address. Is anyone there?”

When no reply came he reached forward and pushed the door inward, staring in to the gloom of the front hallway. He could see a small, shabby sitting room on one side, and a bedroom on the other, the bed neatly made and the wall blank save for a framed certificate bearing the seal of the South Australian police force. Campbell wasn’t the sort to keep mementos apparently. Further down the hall he could make out two closed doors and what appeared to be the entrance to a kitchen and a small dining area. 

There was no sign of Campbell and David entered the house as quietly and as carefully as he could. A quick check of the bedroom and sitting room confirmed that the front of the house was empty and he moved further in, his hand creeping back to his pistol as another roll of thunder passed over the house and the hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms raised. The next door along the corridor was locked and he decided to leave it, he could always come back to it if the rest of the house was empty, but the next door opened, and he stopped dead in the entrance to the bathroom, fumbling for his phone as he took in the sight of the collection of swords and knives set out to dry on the chipped tiles, his chest tightening all over again. He brought his phone to his ear, not wanting to take his eyes off of the large assortment of blades.

“Adita?” he asked, before the woman even had a chance to speak, “Adita, what length did you say the blade was? The one that was used to impale Candice Goodfellow?”

“Sixty centimetres, sir,” she told him quickly. “There was distinct bruising around the entrance that indicated a hilt so sixty centimetres is the whole length. I posited that the weapon was likely an antique because while it was very sharp it appeared to have several nicks, which is how some of Ms. Goodfellow’s blood was left behind and then transferred to Constable Spence’s tissue. But, um, yes... sixty centimetres, sir. The length of the blade you’re looking for is sixty centimetres.” David could hear the confusion in her voice, and her concern at his lack of response, but she didn’t push for information and David was grateful. He didn’t seem to have enough breath in his lungs to say more than was absolutely necessary.

“Thank you, Adita,” he told her softly. “I’m going to send you some photographs in a moment. I want you to try and match the shape of the bruising on Candice’s body to the hilt of the sword in the photo. I also want you to send copies of the photos to your boss and the head of Serious Crime, and anyone else you think should see them. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, of course, but what-”

“I need to hang up now,” David interrupted, unable to shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone in the small house. “I’m at Commissioner Campbell’s. I’ll call you if I find anything else.”

He ended the call and took several pictures, trying to get the angles that Adita would need to get a preliminary match on the weapon. He took photos of the other knives as well, all of them were old, all of them were stained. He hadn’t expected to find this sort of evidence displayed so clearly. He sent off the photos to Adita, pocketed his phone, and peered out in to the hallway. There was no sign of movement, no sounds, but the feeling of being watched remained as he made his way slowly toward the kitchen, his eyes straining in the low light. 

He had expected the kitchen to be as sparse as the other rooms, set out in a utilitarian manner that would fit with what he knew of Campbell, but instead the small table was covered in photographs and David felt a shiver run down his spine, constricting his chest further. It was the sort of display that he’d seen before, both when tracking serial killers, and in the slide shows he had made for his class. The evidence was overwhelming and he took several more pictures for Adita before he calmed his heart enough to look closer at the old, faded photographs. 

He picked out Campbell immediately, even in the oldest photos when he was young and weedy. He was rarely smiling in any of the photos, and in none of the photos that contained the second young man and an elderly woman. David guessed that the woman was Campbell’s mother, the other man his brother, but Campbell didn’t stand like a young man surrounded by family. He reminded David of a bodyguard, watchful and suspicious, and David wondered what had happened to the rest of Campbell’s family. There was a photo of Campbell on his graduation day, standing tall and stoic in his uniform, and a photograph of his brother in academic robes, holding up an Honours degree and smiling brightly whilst at his side Campbell’s face was completely blank. He looked up, trying to get his bearings, to understand how and why a man like Campbell would have started killing people, but the thoughts fled from his mind as he looked out of the kitchen window and noticed the rusting washing line in the backyard, and the body hanging from it.

“No,” he murmured, rushing toward the kitchen door, tripping as he went, his legs refusing to move as fast as he needed them to. “No, that doesn’t make sense.” 

He ran in to the yard, staring in horror at the bloated and purpling body, but stopped when the stench hit him, and the memories. Images of Dillon being strangled as he lay helpless and bound on the bed, of his throat stained black and blue with bruises, flashed before his eyes, blurring the yard in front of him. His throat burned, refusing to take in air, releasing only a sob that made him want to clamp his hands down tight over his mouth, to hide the fear. He blinked hard, clawing his way back from the edge, from the memories, until he could again focus on Campbell’s body in front of him, but still struggled to walk toward it. The smell was too much, but he tried to focus on what it could tell him, what he could learn from the body.

He reached in to his pocket and retrieved his dictaphone, holding it close to his lips as he began to speak, willing himself to stay calm and professional. With any luck someone from the Whitecove station would arrive soon; they could call through for the forensic team, David just needed to sort through the information his eyes and mind were throwing at him before he completely overloaded.

“The body of Police Commissioner Marcus Campbell, found at two forty-seven p.m., hanging by what appears to be a nylon rope ligature from the washing line pole in his back yard.” He took a shallow breath through his mouth and stepped forward, trying not to look at the man’s face as he continued. “First indication would be to suspect suicide due to lack of scratch marks around the ligature, and lack of binding of the hands but... it doesn’t feel right,” he conceded. “A man like Campbell doesn’t hang himself. He was ready to hang me yesterday and...” David swallowed carefully, trying to focus, walking the last few steps forward to examine the body and pulling a glove from his pocket with his free hand. “The victim’s extremities and limbs are stiff, suggesting time of death was at least four hours ago, likely between six and twelve hours, suggesting that the man who called me to here did so after Campbell died, possibly knowing that he was already dead. The victim’s wrists... marks on the wrists show signs of being bound at some point before death and,” he walked around until he was facing back toward the house, “there is significant trauma to the back of the skull, though whether it is from an earlier injury or due to hitting his head against the pole, I can’t at this point tell. His feet,” David stopped. Looking down had sent the stench of the body in to his nose, and he began to cough and gag, stumbling away and falling to his knees. He couldn’t stop once he began to wretch but felt no better for vomiting. He’d never vomited at a crime scene before, not even at his first, even if he had been sick after it, but his brain was feeding him too much information too quickly and the memories from the previous year, when it had been Dillon on the point of death, covered in blood and his wrists raw from trying to escape, wouldn’t leave him alone long enough to focus. “The victim’s feet,” he tried again, “are only a few centimetres off the ground. If he was conscious when he died it would have been a very painful death.”

He lowered the dictaphone, let it drop in to the overgrown grass as a fresh wave of nausea caused him to heave, and then reached for his phone. The local officers hadn’t arrived and he needed to call it in. Campbell had been his key to solving the case and he couldn’t believe that he would have killed himself, and certainly not by hanging. It was on the list after all, was the next method of execution according to the pattern Mike had told him, and even if the last time round no one had been found who had been hanged, that still made it more likely that the killer, the true killer, had done this. 

It made sense, but David couldn’t fight the nagging doubt that remained, because the Longboat Killer didn’t leave his victims on display. He buried them. He buried them under mounds of earth, just like the mound that took up the rest of the yard behind the clothes line, David realised. He lifted his phone to his ear as he heard the call click through and one of the office constables give their name.

“This is Detective Inspector David-”

The phone fell from David’s hand as the blade of a shovel connected with the back of his head and he gasped, barely conscious, sprawled out in the grass and weeds, his vision blurred. He tried to turn, to get a good look at his attacker, but the shovel came down again and his body went limp. 

The killer smiled, dragging the detective’s body away through the grass toward the garage and the waiting van. Such a small man, and so easy to dispose of in the end, despite his persistent meddling and officiousness. He returned to cut through the rope that had taken care of Marcus. He was surprised it had taken the weight for so long. It would be such a pleasure to bury them both, to prove his superiority once and for all. Two boats were waiting, the holes already dug, and this time no one had discovered his burial ground. Now no one would.

***

Adita’s eyes flickered between the photographs that DI Sharma had sent through to her laptop, and the latest email from the Super Intendant, chewing on her lip. Her boss had been sent home, along with thirty per cent of the Serious Crime Unit, most of whom were members of the Homicide division, when a team from Internal Affairs and the Federal Police had turned up, and she wasn’t sure who she should report to. The email said that they were to carry on, business as usual, but no one seemed to understand exactly what that meant. 

She turned at a tap on the door, trying to look less jumpy than she felt. So many people seemed to have been involved in the misuse of funds case that Campbell had been behind that she wasn’t quite sure who to trust, especially since Detective Sharma had stopped answering his phone. The woman at the door was young, with silky dyed red hair, high cheekbones, and pretty epicanthic eyes, and Adita recognised her as a newer member of the homicide team, and the lowest in the pecking order. She’d arrived just before Sharma had and was generally treated with a ‘constables should be seen and not heard’ attitude. Adita felt for the woman; she’d had her fair share of bigoted comments about good little Asian women knowing their place. She blinked, focusing back on the present, wondering what it was about her that was making the woman stare, and it took a moment for her to realise that the constable was staring past her to the photographs on her laptop.

“Can I help you?” she asked pointedly, catching the worry in the other woman’s dark eyes. 

“I hope so,” came the reply as the woman walked in carefully, several files held to her chest. “I’m Detective Constable Zhang. Yina Zhang. I’m with Homicide, well, what’s left of it. I got a call from Detective Inspector Sharma, only, he was cut off. And technically he’s the one I’m supposed to report to, especially now, but his phone is turned off. I don’t know him well but he doesn’t seem like the sort to do that. I mean, with everything that’s going on I’d expect him to be here, if he knew about it all. So now I’m worried. His call was cut off suddenly and I thought I heard something before the line went dead and I know you’ve worked with him. I know, I mean, I’ve seen you two together, and I figure he trusts you. And I figure since you’re still here it means you weren’t part of the whole, siphoned funds and bribing thing that’s apparently been going on.”

Adita tried to filter out the relevant information from everything DC Zhang had said but all she got from the woman was an overwhelming nervousness. Still, it confirmed her own fears. “I received a couple of emails from Detective Sharma about an hour ago. He sent me photos from a suspected crime scene. I expected to hear back from him before now,” she admitted. 

“D’you mind my asking which crime scene?” the woman asked. “As far as I know DI Sharma hadn’t been assigned to anything yet. He only just got back from leave. I saw him leave the station at lunch, then he called the office at ten to three, that was over an hour ago. I’ve only been in this job eighteen months and... Campbell doesn’t like me, but without a clear chain of command, I’m just not sure what to do.”

“Okay,” Adita said slowly. “As far as I know Sharma was at Campbell’s house an hour ago, but that’s not necessarily a good thing considering what he found. I think we need to put together what we know to give to as many people as will listen. And while we’re doing that you should put in a call to local uniform, ask them to swing past Campbell’s house. And it might be worth calling DS Smith, I don’t know if you know him, but he’s a friend of DI Sharma’s, and his wife had a serious accident last night. There’s a chance that Sharma went in to visit him at the hospital.”

“We should call his boyfriend too,” Zhang offered quietly, shrugging at Adita’s sharp look. “I’ve seen him around and his case was sort of a big deal.” She gave a shy grin before looking away. “And, you know, being an openly gay cop... DI Sharma’s kind of my hero.”

Adita squashed down her smile, but only just. There would be time later to attempt to flirt with the cute DC. “I’ll call Dillon now,” she agreed. “You see if you can find Campbell’s address and give his local station a call. Then we call Smith, and the university. And then,” she paused for breath, wondering if she was going to end up in trouble for giving orders where she had no right to. “Then we take the evidence we’ve got to anyone who’ll listen. Deal?”

“Deal,” Detective Constable Zhang agreed, sitting down in front of the desktop computer further along Adita’s workbench and logging in. “After everything that’s gone down today, the number of people I’ve heard will be facing charges for taking dirty money from Campbell, I don’t want to lose one of the few people who’s definitely clean.”

“How do you know that?” Adita asked curiously, bringing her phone to her ear, suddenly curious about the young DC who seemed to see a lot more than anyone gave her credit for.

Detective Constable Zhang shrugged. “Campbell hates DI Sharma more than anyone. If he’d been bribing him he wouldn’t have spent so much time yelling at him. If Sharma was at the Commissioner’s the last time we had contact with him then I’m officially calling his disappearance suspicious.” 

“Good call,” Adita agreed. It wasn’t difficult to keep her face serious now, when she had the phone to her ear and the photographs Sharma had taken right in front of her. She frowned at the image in the top corner, enlarging it to see if she could make out any of the detail. Working in forensics was never light or particularly pleasant but this case had gotten darker than she’d been expecting and she was pretty sure it was about to get worse.


	16. Chapter 16

Dillon could feel his body shaking, could feel the pain that was running through his leg, pooling in his hip, burning like a ring of molten lead around his shin. Yet it seemed far off somehow, like it wasn’t really his to experience. He’d feel better if he could just see David, he knew it somehow, but he didn’t know where David was, nobody did and the longer he went without any information the worse his chest tightened until every breath physically hurt. 

He hadn’t felt this sick for so long, but the urge to vomit was all too familiar, and he stumbled to the bathroom with his hand pressed to his mouth, screaming against his fingers at the agony that came with trying to run. He couldn’t tell, as the vomit erupted from his throat, whether it was a result of the vicious anxiety, or from the pain that shot up through his knees as they landed on the hard tiles in front of the toilet. Thinking was too difficult and he gave up on it until the heaving of his stomach had subsided and he could breathe again, albeit with difficulty. His throat felt burnt and he couldn’t stop the tears as they continued to fall but he needed to pull himself together. David was missing and he needed to find him. 

A knock on the door made him squeal and he clamped his hand over his mouth. He tried to tell himself that he was fine, that he was safe, that no one could get in because he had been checking the locks every ten minutes since Adita’s call two hours ago, but his brain refused to conjure up any image of the doors actually being locked and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t safe. His only real reassurance was that several people knew where he was and would come looking for him if his phone went silent. It wasn’t much comfort but it was all he had.

When he had been the one missing David had tracked him down fast and rescued him but Dillon knew that he didn’t have the same sort of analytical brain as David, he couldn’t set out clues in his brain and piece them together, couldn’t recall vital facts when stressed. He’d prided himself once on being the sensible friend who always had a plan but these days his emotions seemed to run the game and all he knew was that David was in trouble and that no one seemed to have any clue where he was. Which was why he’d called Mike. Dillon didn’t have the brain for mysteries but Mike did and he’d immediately begun positing scenarios and creating a list of what they should do if the police weren’t being of any use. Dillon had found it overwhelming and, as if sensing that, Mike had handed the phone to Helen, who had talked to him gently and worked at calming his breathing.

They had promised to do what they could to help, and to come to the house, and realistically Dillon knew that the knocking on his door was probably his friends, but it was still difficult to get up and limp to the door, his mobile clutched tight in his free hand. The banging had turned urgent by the time he reached the door and he began to wonder if perhaps it was David himself or someone he worked with, someone with news or-

“Helen?”

The woman looked in a bad way, leaning on her cane and shaking nearly as much as Dillon had been and he quickly unlatched the chain to let her in, but she didn’t move from where she stood, leaning against the verandah post to steady herself instead. 

“Come on, sweet boy,” she said breathlessly. “We know where David might be, we think, but we have to get there now.”

“What?” Dillon was already grabbing his keys as he spoke, and pulled the door shut behind him before he could even register what he was doing, stowing his mobile in his pocket as he followed Helen down the front path toward the street. It wasn’t until he was halfway to the road that his brain caught up with his body, and his instincts, and he began asking questions. “Where, where, where’s David, Helen? Helen, where... where is he? And how exactly are we going to, to, to get to him, Helen? You can’t drive and, and, and I don’t have a car.”

Helen turned to look back at him, breathing hard but determined and possibly, Dillon thought as he looked in to her eyes, something else as well. Something like excitement.

“I’ve brought back up,” she said with the slightest grin and Dillon looked out toward the street to see Mike jump out of his van to open the door and help them in.

“I think he’s at the overpass construction site,” Mike informed him as he gave Helen his hand to lean on as she climbed in to the long front seat. “Not the one where they found Candice, the one at the other end of South Road. There’s a big, excavated pit there with six identical mounds in it. Six. And I didn’t think much of it because surely there haven’t been that many. He didn’t ever kill that fast, that’s not the pattern he followed, but there were two new holes dug this morning when I drove past there, even though there’s no work being done there. Those mounds don’t make sense any other way. If David’s anywhere, he’s there.”

Dillon allowed himself to be pulled in to the van and they were off and moving with a skid of tyres before Dillon could think of anything else to say, but suddenly, as they turned out on to the main road, the questions came to him.

“Did you, um, did you... did you call the police? Do, do, do they know? Will they meet us there?”

Helen scoffed and Mike shook his head. “When you called and said no one could get hold of David I called triple zero immediately with what I knew. They told me to call Crime-stoppers instead to report suspicious activity or my local station during business hours. I was furious and I... lost my temper somewhat.”

Dillon couldn’t easily imagine Mike, all mild manners and quiet words, losing his temper but he understood the anger. A few years ago he would have refused to call the police, knowing that like as not they’d treat him as the criminal rather than looking for whoever had actually perpetrated the crime. He still didn’t trust most of them. But there were a few.

“We need to call them back,” he insisted, moving awkwardly to retrieve his mobile from his pocket. “We need to, to, to give them more information.”

“Are you kidding?” Mike asked him in disbelief, looking across at him with wide, frightened eyes. “If I tell the cops who I think the killer is, I’ll end up under a dirt mound myself. We might already be too late.”

“You think it’s, it’s, it’s Campbell, don’t you? His boss?” The look Mike gave him was all the confirmation he needed and he gripped the handle of his crutch as tight as he could, to keep the pain from showing. The last thing he needed right now was for the urge to vomit to come back. He needed to hold it together, at least for a little while longer. “Adita said, said Campbell’s house was the, the, the last place they know for certain David, um, visited. She says local cops went to, to, to check it out and found... lots of... things. But not David. Or Campbell.”

“So we’re on our own then,” Mike muttered through clenched teeth, staring out at the road ahead like it was a chasm they were about to drive in to headfirst. 

Dillon hesitated, the urge to vomit rising again along with the panic. He could understand Mike’s fear but he couldn’t stop his thumb from finding the number in his phone and hovering over the call button all the same. ‘What would David do? What would David do?’ his brain whispered urgently and he knew that while David probably would try to go running in on his own, even if he knew it could be dangerous, he would urge Dillon to be cautious. He grunted as the van went over a pot hole and as a fresh wave of pain hit his leg he realised there were other reasons for calling for help. 

“D’you have any, any, um, weapons in this thing? Mike?”

The man’s pale blue eyes flashed with annoyance in the mirror again but Dillon set his jaw stubbornly in answer and waited for the reply. “There’s a shovel,” he said eventually.

“And, and. and do either of you know self defense?” Dillon pressed on. He liked both Helen and Michael and understood their distrust, especially now, but it was David’s life at stake, and he wasn’t about to let anyone stand in his way. He watched as they shook their heads. “What about, um, dealing with a a, a serial killer? Anything to, to, to defend ourselves or, or, or take down a man we know has, has... killed about a dozen people?” Helen sighed but Dillon didn’t want her giving up, not when they were so close to the excavated pit. “We can hardly take him on with, with, with two canes and some cleaning supplies. What we can do is, is track down David. That’s our, our, our priority. So I’m calling for help. We need back-up.”

“You sound like a cop,” Mike said after a moment’s silence, but he didn’t sound angry and Dillon gave him a questioning look. 

“It, it... rubs off, I guess. David, um, talks in, in, in his sleep so all my dreams are, are cop dramas.”

He heard them both chuckle but the smile fell from his own lips before it had time to settle there. They needed to get to David, needed to find him, before it was too late. Dillon refused to believe the voice in his head that suggested it might already be too late. He had to, had to believe that there was still hope, and that David wasn’t so easy to kill. He hit call on his phone and lifted it to his ear, trying to stop his body from shaking as he listened to the dial tone.

“Hello?” came the exhausted voice down the line, but Dillon wasn’t put off by the gruffness, not this time.

“Tom?” he asked. “Tom, it’s, it’s Dillon. I know you told me not to, to, to worry but-”

“No, you were right,” the detective interrupted. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with him either. He was supposed to be meeting with the Commissioner but his phone’s off as well. I’ve had calls from forensics, my boss, internal affairs, some inspector with Federal. I’d call this a fair time to start with the worrying. Unless you know where he is.”

“I have... I have a good idea, actually,” Dillon nodded, glancing toward Mike again as he said it, seeing the acknowledgement and trust in the man’s eyes. Mike didn’t trust the police one bit but he was willing to follow Dillon’s lead in this, and that counted for a lot. “I need, need, need you to get some officers to the excavated... the, the pit at the northern end of South Road. Please, Tom? Please?”

“I’ll get there right away.” There was no hesitation and Dillon was sure the man heard the relieved breath that came rushing from his lips at the acknowledgement that Dillon wasn’t losing his mind or wasting police time. “And I’ll bring back up as well. But where are you, son?”

“I’m...” Dillon hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure where they were, he didn’t know the names of the roads, but he knew they were close. “I’m on my, um, my way there too.”

“Shit,” Smith whispered harshly, and Dillon flinched. “Just wait for me to get there, alright, son? I don’t want to have to explain to Sharma that you’ve managed to get yourself in trouble again, you hear me?”

Dillon smiled grimly. “It’s not, not me in trouble this time, Tom. And so long as, as, as he’s alive, David can get as cross with me as he likes.”

“Just... just wait for me, alright?”

“Bye, Tom. Thanks.” Dillon ended the call and looked up. Helen had twisted around in her seat to look at him, her drawn face serious, the fear easy to read in her eyes. Dillon nodded to her. “They’re coming.”

“Well isn’t it nice to have friends,” she said with a touch of sarcasm but Dillon didn’t rise to it.

The van was bumping him around again and he swore under his breath as each jolt sent a sharp shock of pain to his hip. Mike had left the road and was driving out across the construction site. There was no sign of life, no sign that David had driven to the site, no sign of David at all, or anyone else. Ahead of them, in the darkness, were the mounds.

“Oh god,” he whispered, the reality of the situation hitting him full force. “They’re real. Fuck, David, where are you?”

“That one,” Mike pointed, pulling up close to the mounds and wrenching his keys from the ignition. “That’s the freshest. And the biggest. I reckon he’s there.” He leapt from the van and wrenched open the side door, pulling out an old metal shovel and Dillon felt his heart drop like a lead plumb in to his stomach. 

“In there? What, what, what d’you mean, in there?” Dillon yelled, his voice cracking, his throat constricting painfully tight. “Buried? You, you, you think he’s... dead?”

Mike looked up, his eyes wide and glassy, his chest heaving as he shook his head. “You said that Sergeant Smith’s wife was burned, right? By boiling water?” Dillon nodded, heaving himself from the van and following Mike toward the mound. “And your forensics friend reckoned there might have been another body at Campbell’s house, based on what she saw in the back of that photo?” 

“Yeah,” Dillon nodded again, struggling to keep up and gritting his teeth hard against the spasming muscles of his leg. In the distance he could hear sirens and the work site was soon lit up by the blue and red lights of police vehicles. “She was, um, trying to see if she could, could read the words in some, um, photograph David had sent and, and, and realised she could see what looked like a, um, a body hanging.”

“Right,” Mike breathed, swinging the shovel toward the mound with a grunt. “Boiling. Hanging. Next comes... being buried alive.” He shuddered, and seeing the look in his eyes Dillon fell to his knees and began to dig with his hands. A moment later Helen was at his side shifting the earth with her cane. “I think David’s still alive, Dillon,” Mike told him breathlessly and he continued to dig to their left. “I do. But we need to get him out. Now.” 

***

David woke shaking and in pain, his chest aching as it heaved and struggled to draw in enough air. His mouth was covered and his wrists tied in front of him and there was no light, not even a glimmer to allow his eyes to adjust, and he reached his hands out blindly until they hit a hard surface just above. The movement sent a shower of dust in to his eyes and he clenched them tight, trying to swear against the gag that covered his mouth and wrapped around his jaw. He lifted his hands to it, trying to figure out what it was and if he could peel it away but it seemed to be thick tape, layered over his mouth, beard, and nape, and he gave up on it in favour of searching his pockets and surroundings. 

He knew, with a fear that made him want to scream until his throat was raw, that he was buried with a selection of personal items, under a mound of earth that would be unmarked and unremarkable. The only positive he could take from the situation was that as the tenth victim he was supposed to die of suffocation from being buried alive, which was at least better than burning, though was by all accounts still a horrible way to go, just slower. It gave him time, at least, to be found. Not that there was much chance of that, he realised with a shudder, because he had no idea where he was, no one knew he was missing, he was trapped under a pile of earth, with no one looking for him and very little air. There was no way of knowing how long he’d been down there, or how much oxygen he might have left, but he wasn’t going to go down without one final fight. He had promised Dillon that he’d be home for dinner, had planned for it to be a special night, had even considered proposing, finally. 

He grabbed for the items that had been buried with him and felt the hard edge of a photo frame. His heart ached, knowing that it was one of the new ones he’d had printed and framed that day, of either Dillon or his family, but didn’t hesitate in hitting it hard with his fist to crack the glass and use a shard to cut the plastic tie around his wrists, grunting as he cut himself by accident. He tried not to think about the fact that Dillon had sustained just the same injury when trying to cut his own bonds; if he thought too much about Dillon he’d fall in to another panic attack and he couldn’t afford that. He couldn’t afford to use up his oxygen. 

With his hands free he tested the wooden boards above him again, shutting his eyes against the dirt that fell, and then decided to keep them shut, since he couldn’t see anyway. The wood was old and was already starting to give under the weight of the soil above and he turned to put the weight of his shoulder against it, heaving it to the side and letting the dirt fall past him, screaming behind the gag as pain burst in his arm and along his collar. He wanted to curl in to the injury, to give himself time, to let the burning pain recede, but there was no time, and so he worked fast, pushing handfuls of it past him in to the bottom of the boat and trying to pack it in as tightly as he could, trying to keep up with it as it fell over his head and shoulders. There would be no point in trying to fight his way straight upwards, but if he went up on an angle he thought he might just have a chance, and a chance was good enough.

His last words to Dillon had been a promise and he was determined to follow through on it. He was going to look upon that glorious, gentle face again, in to those deep, intelligent eyes, and he was going to tilt that stubborn jaw his way and kiss the man for all he was worth. And he was worth the world to David.

The small boat was filling with dirt fast, and filling David with a horrible, clawing, claustrophobia as the space around him disappeared. He was almost grateful for the tape across his mouth, it stopped the soil from getting in, but his nostrils were wet and clogged and he was beginning to see sparks in front of his eyes even though they were closed and his body felt strangely weightless, like he was swimming rather than drowning in dirt. He was aware of the throbbing pain in his shoulder as he pushed through the rough soil, and the sharp sting of his wrists, but strangely, more than any of that, he could feel the press of the ring box against his thigh, reminding him to keep going.

He had no idea how far he had moved, how close he was to the surface. The other victims had been found in shallow graves, the boats barely beneath the surface before they were covered in earth, but there was no telling if he had been buried in the same way. He just had to hope that he was heading in the right direction. His muscles were heavy and his nose was completely blocked but his foot found the rotting wood of the boat and pushed off, trying to propel himself forward, desperate to feel the air.

Instead his fingers brushed against something warm. He grasped for it and felt his brain scream when his hands found only soil, but a moment later a hand surged forward and grabbed his wrist, pulling him upwards, with enough force to wrench his shoulder completely out of its socket. His body spasmed with the pain but the hand didn’t let go, and a second later it was joined by another, and he was pulled, slowly and painfully out of the earth.

***

Dillon sobbed, screaming as he heaved on David’s body, desperate to pull him free. Beside him Helen grabbed at the collar of David’s shirt as they dragged him upwards. Mike was frantically clearing the earth that still covered his body and behind them was the pounding of feet and calls for equipment and paramedics, but Dillon’s mind was focused entirely on the dirt covered man fighting weakly to free himself. 

When his legs were uncovered Mike lifted him and together he and Dillon got David out on to the packed earth of the construction site. Dillon looked down, cradling David’s head in his lap, tears blurring his vision and hitting David’s face, turning the dirt to mud. David’s eyes were shut and his chest, as far as Dillon could tell, wasn’t moving. He needed to clear David’s airways, but his hands were filthy and any attempt to wipe his face only smeared more dirt across his cheeks, so he grabbed his t-shirt and used that instead, clearing the muck from around David’s nose and eyes before he began to pry the layers of tape away from his jaw and mouth.

He hadn’t been prepared for what state David would actually be in when they found him, hadn’t had time to think it through or imagine, but somehow felt that the sight of the man he loved with his mouth bound shut, his eyes closed so tight he feared he’d never be able to open them again, and his skin grey and bloody, was worse than anything his nightmares could conjure. He pulled ruthlessly at the tape, hoping David would forgive him for the damage he was doing to his face and beard, until David’s lips were finally free, pale and gasping. 

He jolted in Dillon’s arms, his one hand closing convulsively around Dillon’s shoulder as he attempted to breath, the sound a thick, wet, rattle, whilst his other arm curled in against his chest. Dislocated, Dillon thought at a glance, and carefully avoided the injured limb as he pressed his palm to David’s chest, feeling the fragile breaths that were all his lungs could manage. Dillon looked up as he heard footsteps approaching, relieved to see the paramedics running in his direction, followed by Tom and several other officers. 

“He needs oxygen!” he yelled. “And he’s sustained lacerations to, to, to his wrists and,” he looked down again, tears blurring his vision as he looked at the way David was curling in on himself, and the bruising he could see forming along his skin where his shirt had ripped, trusting his judgement. “And has a probable dislocated humerus or or labrum tear, possibly both.”

The paramedics were at his side in moments, placing the oxygen mask over David’s face as they attempted to rouse him, asking questions as Dillon stroked his sweat drenched curls. At first there was no response, though Dillon could see now that David was at least breathing more easily, but he didn’t seem capable of answering any questions. It was only when he was asked if he knew where he was that David finally mumbled, his eyelids flickering, trying to focus but failing in the sudden bright light as the forensic crew swarmed over the site with their floodlights.

“What was that, Detective?” one of the paramedics asked, moving the oxygen mask just far enough away for them to hear his words, and Dillon’s face split in to a smile when David’s eyes found his, if only for a moment.

“‘M with Dillon,” David repeated. “Had... to get... to Dillon. Had to ask...”

His eyes rolled back in to his head and Dillon was aware of the men and women around him making plans to transfer him in to the waiting ambulance, but all his could see was David, and all he could hear were those words, the beautiful rich voice of the man he loved. Until a scream cut through the scene and every officer and medic froze, suddenly aware of the movement at the far end of the site, just beyond Mike Magarey’s van where the light hadn’t quite reached save for the glint on the edge of an antique blade. 

***

It had all gone wrong. He had been watching, ticking down the moments until the oxygen ran out and he could be sure that the troublesome detective really was dead. He’d been enjoying it, imagining the panic and pain he would be going through when consciousness crept back upon him. He’d calculated that the space he’d created would contain approximately five hours of air and so he had waited silently, standing guard against any interruption. 

All he had needed was five hours of peace, but even that had been too much to ask and his frustration on being interrupted by nameless idiots making lucky guesses was infuriating. He was an intelligent man, more intelligent than anyone gave him credit for, even if his life and career had fallen apart around him and forced him in to a world of drudgery and mediocrity, he still knew his own superiority and seeing the van pull up, seeing Sharma’s useless boyfriend stumble forth, and the Goodfellow woman, was too much. People like that had no right to track down the site that he had chosen so carefully. 

It almost made him wish for a gun and he smiled as he thought back over the many arguments he and Marcus had had over the years, over the merits of firearms verses the beauty and poetry of more traditional weapons. Marcus had never really understood that death could be beautiful, and so he had ended his life at the end of an ugly nylon rope. He had never understood, but he had been useful. He had hoped his brother might have been more useful in death, had hoped that people would be satisfied to believe that Marcus had killed his detective and gone in to hiding. It had been a difficult decision to make, to let someone else take credit for what he had done, but he had thought it necessary at the time, especially when their carefully constructed network within the central station had collapsed. 

And now it had all gone wrong. Even watching them dig he hadn’t believed they would reach the man in time but it seemed Sharma had been doing some digging of his own, and he hadn’t planned on that. Sharma knew too much. He waited long enough to see him pulled free, to hear oxygen called for - proof that he was alive - before trying to slip away unnoticed. He was good at going unnoticed. Marcus had used the fact to taunt him, that he was too good at it, that he had been made to skulk around in the shadows and dusty archive rooms. Marcus had threatened, and then promised, that he would do all within his power to ensure that he would always be the most unremarkable man on earth. He’d never considered how much Marcus had been behind his ability to disappear, but within a few steps he heard a woman’s voice and lashed out, grabbing her as she screamed, her black braid flying as he twisted her arm, pulling his favourite knife from his belt to hold against her throat.

He dragged her deeper in to the shadows, his mind spiraling as he tried to think his way out of the mess that could be blamed squarely on the filthy detective still lying in the dirt. “Stay back!” he yelled, watching in triumph as the ridiculous men in their blue shirts and heavy belts stopped short. But one person kept moving forward, limping and twisted, her pale face so much like her daughter’s had been before he’d killed her, when she too had realised the truth. It felt good to be recognised, even by someone so low. If he’d had his way he would have let it happen far earlier.

“Harvey? It was you?” Goodfellow croaked as she stumbled forward, squinting in to the shadows. “You killed my daughter?”

“Stop,” he told her, hating her for taking another step forward. “Stop before I slice her throat.” But she ignored him and a movement to his left made him stumble, his steps impeded by the woman against his chest, clawing at his arm.

“You won’t slice her throat,” came a man’s voice, and he glanced to the side, recognising the man he had seen at Goodfellow’s flat. He should have been more careful, should have gone back and made sure that he killed the right man. “You won’t kill her. That’s not your pattern. You can’t kill her like this. The knife’s not right; you can’t kill her like this. You know that.”

“And what would you know?” he spat, pushing his knife closer, hearing the hitched breath of the woman as she realised her life was about to end.

“I know plenty,” the man responded quietly. “You’re not going to kill her, not like this.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” He lunged, baring his teeth, ready to defy the man, to defy them all.

A shocking pain ran through him, stopping him short, forcing the knife from his hand, forcing him to the ground as the woman escaped his grasp. The jolts from the taser seemed to go on for an eternity and he saw the blurred faces of the Goodfellow woman, the man who dared to claim he understood, the dark face of the woman he had been willing to break his pattern to kill, the distant outline of Sharma, and the boy who held him. They were all to blame. 

When he was able to feel anything but pain and hear more than the intense ringing in his ears it was a boot against his back and another woman’s voice telling him to stay down. It was over.


	17. Chapter 17

David woke slowly, blinking against the light. He was stiff and disorientated but felt a rush of relief when he was able to stretch his jaw and take a deep breath of clean air. He tried to focus his eyes, to identify the shapes that he knew were people, and raised his hand to rub the grit away, conscious of a tightness and a tugging in his arm, but more aware of the gasp he heard, the voice that he knew so well saying his name with a tremor.

“David? Love?”

He blinked again, and trained his eyes on Dillon’s face, the pale curve of his cheek bone and firm line of his lips, the fine brown hair that framed his face, for once free to hang down almost to his shoulders. He moved his hand, noting the IV line in his elbow, and the bandage around his wrist; his muscles felt like water but he managed to reach Dillon’s face, running his thumb over the smooth cheek.

“Hey.”

Dillon covered David’s hand with his own, and turned to kiss his palm slowly and deliberately. David licked his lips at the sight of it, but as he finally began to get his bearings he also became aware that there were other people standing around his bed and that they might not want to witness the things he wanted to do and say to Dillon just then. Luckily Dillon was there to save him from himself. 

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Good to, to, to see you lucid. You, um, you had us all a, a, a bit worried.”

David glanced around. Dillon was sitting close to the bed, by the window, and Adita was seated on the other side, a gauze bandage on the side of her throat and her arm in a sling. Tom was standing behind her, along with a young Detective Constable David recognised but couldn’t name. Standing behind Dillon were Helen and Mike, Helen leaning against Mike’s chest. Everyone looked tired, as tired as David felt, but he was beyond relieved to see them all.

“I’ll second that,” Smith grunted happily, folding his arms and grinning down. “And good to see you looking cleaner then the last time I saw you too. Word says you’ll be getting a nice shiny medal for this.”

David rolled his eyes but smiled back all the same. “I don’t see why. I didn’t catch the fucker. He buried me.”

He shuddered as the memories of waking up beneath a mound of earth washed over him, but he wasn’t the only one. Dillon kissed his hand again and Mike tightened his hold on Helen’s shoulder. Adita looked away with a furrowed brow and David wondered how she’d been hurt; he’d couldn’t remember anything after Dillon, Helen, and Mike had dug him out. 

“True,” Smith said more gruffly, nodding toward the young, red haired woman behind Adita. “It was DC Zhang here who tasered the bastard. But the evidence they’ll use to convict him came from you and Dr. Sarin here. And Zhang’s spent the last twenty-four hours digging up every buried crime Harvey Bach Campbell ever committed. It was quite the web they’d set up; Campbell had been paying people off for years. Makes me feel quite left out. They got cash, I just got a whole barrel of trouble.”

David swallowed, feeling a sudden weight settle upon his chest, a million tasks and responsibilities that he didn’t want to have to deal with yet knew he would. “Thank you, Detective Constable. Thank you, Adita, Tom. How’s Margot?”

Smith gave him a hard stare, as if he could see the weight and all of David’s fears and didn’t approve. “She’s in the ward across the hall. Sally’s with her but I should be getting back. I just came to check in on you. Take it easy, Sharma. It’s good to see you awake and breathing.”

“We should go too,” Adita told him as Tom walked away with a wave, drawing his wavering attention back to the people around his bed. “I’ve been discharged and I am so ready to spend the week lying in bed with nothing to do. Yina’s dropping me home.” She grinned at him but David wasn’t fooled. Whatever she’d been through would require more than a week of rest to get over and he would probably need to talk to her about it eventually. He got the feeling that when he had uncovered all of the facts of what had happened he would have to send out some pretty significant thank you baskets. 

He let the two women go with a nod, unsure of what to say, or whether he’d be able to say anything at all. His throat felt tight and dry and his eyes were ridiculously close to overflowing as he turned back to where Dillon was sitting, holding David’s hand in his lap. He looked up at Helen and Mike, and the way they were standing together. He was glad they’d found each other even if the circumstances were far from ideal.

“You really did give us all a scare,” Helen told him, when their eyes met. “You’re lucky that that sweet man of yours kept his head. And that we made a lucky guess. I hate to think...” she let out a shudder. “I still can’t quite believe it was Harvey.”

Mike opened his mouth to speak but stopped at the sound of footsteps approaching their quiet corner of the ward. It took David a moment to recognise the woman walking toward him until he saw the badge hanging from her belt.

“Detective Inspector Hirshman,” he said, struggling to sit up straighter and failing when a sharp pain ripped through his shoulder and made him gasp.

“Detective Inspector Sharma,” she grinned coming to stand at the end of his bed with her hands in the pockets of her suit. “Don’t get up. You tore up that shoulder pretty badly, so I’m told. And it’ll be Chief Inspector Hirshman by next week, because apparently returning from maternity leave comes with a surprise promotion these days, but for now you can call me Leah. This is a social call.”

David had only met Hirshman once, when she’d walked him through the position he was taking over, but she’d been a straightforward and fair seeming woman, old enough to have no qualms about dressing down anyone who deserved it, and she’d been the first to warn him about Campbell. He watched her shake Dillon’s hand firmly, and then Helen’s and Mike’s, and decided he’d trust her, at least for the time being. 

“Alright, Leah,” he answered eventually, hearing the suspicion in his own voice as he spoke but unable to stop it. “Why the social call?”

“Because I’m about to become your boss and you’ve in hospital and it’s the polite thing to do,” she told him bluntly, tucking her hands back in to her pockets as she looked him over. “And because I’ve only been back on duty for a day and I’ve already heard rumours that my promotion should be going to you. And,” she continued with a roll of her eyes, “the whole department’s running scared, no one knows who to trust, who was in Campbell’s pocket. It’s all a bit of a mess. So I’m doing the rounds in person, so I can get a good look at who I’m working with, and so they can get a good look at me. You think you can handle me telling you what to do, Sharma?”

David gave a quick smile, and the warm squeeze of Dillon’s hands around his told him all he needed to know. A glance in Dillon’s direction confirmed it; if Dillon had looked at Hirshman with suspicion he’d take that as a sign she couldn’t be trusted, but Dillon had a look in his eye, like he appreciated the woman’s straightforward manner, though he was angled protectively in front of David as well, ready to protect him from his new, soon to be boss.

“I don’t want your promotion, Hirshman. To be honest I can’t think of anything worse.” Except being buried alive, his brain whispered insidiously, but Dillon gave his hand another squeeze, as if sensing the thought, and David swallowed carefully and continued. “I am perfectly happy to let someone else deal with the fall out from all of this. I have... something much more important that I need to do.”

Hirshman let out a huffed chuckle, which was echoed by Mike as he and Helen walked around the bed toward the door. “If you want a change of pace you could always write a book,” Mike suggested with an open shrug. 

“I’ll leave that to you,” David told him with a smile, “but I’ll happily read it for you and tell you everything you’ve got wrong if you like.”

Mike laughed properly at that and David felt a smile tug at his lips again as his friends made their farewells, leaving the ward hand in hand. Hirshman watched them go with interest, tucking her short brown hair behind her ears as she turned her head to look at them, and David felt the need to protect his friends surge through him. He didn’t want Hirshman’s job. He couldn’t imagine things would be easy in the wake of Campbell’s death, and while he did want to take it easy for a while - did have something more important to do - he fully intended to return to his job and make sure that they all got through Harvey Bach Campbell’s trial in one piece. 

Hirshman didn’t stay long. She gave them details of Harvey Campbell’s arrest, of the arrests that had stripped the Homicide division down to it’s bare bones when it became clear how many people had accepted bribes from Marcus Campbell in exchange for their silence, then handed Dillon her card, telling him to call her if they needed anything.

“Anything at all,” she told them before she left. “And call me when you getting out of here. There’ll likely be reporters waiting for you when you do, and I’d like to make it as easy as possible for you both. Alright?”

David and Dillon both nodded and then, as her footsteps faded, they were alone. David brought his hand back up to Dillon’s cheek and watched Dillon’s smile crumble, brushing away the single tear that escaped from between his long lashes to slide down his pale skin. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, not trusting himself to speak any louder. “I’m so sorry I never made it home for dinner.” Dillon let out a laugh, which set off a cascade of tears, but David forced himself to keep talking, needing to let the words out before they had a chance to fester inside him. “I should have called for back-up. I should have called you. I should never have put you through that. You saved me.”

“It was a... a team effort,” Dillon responded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. “And I was just... returning the favour. It’s what we, we, we do for the people we love, right?”

“Yeah,” David agreed, moving his hand down to grasp Dillon’s, the need becoming a desperate ache in his chest. “And I really do have something important that I need to do. Something important that I need to say to you. I... I had this whole speech planned actually. I was going to turn up on your doorstep with wine and photos for the mantle to show that I really do want to make your home our home, rather than just being some... untidy tenant. I was going to sit you down and tell you how much I love you, how I adore you.” Dillon’s face was awash, tears tumbling so fast he couldn’t wipe them away, and his lips were swollen and red. He’d never looked so beautiful, and David brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing Dillon’s knuckles carefully, letting his lips rest against Dillon’s ring finger for a long moment. “I had a whole speech planned. I was going to give you something... but I don’t know what happened to it, or if you still want it.”

For a moment he feared Dillon was pulling away from him, but he had only shifted in his chair to pull something from his pocket and looked back at David a moment later with a black velvet ring box open in his hand. It held two rings. One, the engagement ring he had been carrying around with him every day for months and the other, one of almost identical design, just slightly larger.

“I had a... a speech planned and, and, and all too.” Dillon told him. The tears had finally stopped but his long lashes were wet and his eyes were glassy as he gazed at David. 

David leaned forward and Dillon closed the gap to press their lips together delicately, letting the warmth spread as they enjoyed the simple contact before he changed the angle and deepened the kiss, running his tongue over David’s lips until he let them part and surrendered to Dillon’s touch. He felt the engagement ring being slipped on to his finger and fumbled to do the same for Dillon as the kiss continued, stealing his breath in an entirely pleasant way. When Dillon’s hand crept up in to his hair he couldn’t quite suppress the moan that rumbled through him and only stopped when he heard a throat being cleared very deliberately from the doorway. 

Dillon pulled back, looking up at the sound, but David didn’t look up, he didn’t want to focus on anything but his fiancé’s plump red lips, and how his huffed breaths made his blood fizz and rage through his veins. Dillon however, didn’t seem about to continue their kisses.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed nervously. “Your, um, family flew over this morning. Um. Seems like, like, like they want to say hi as well.”

David looked up to his sister, Fatima peaking around the corner of the doorway, her grin wide and teasing. “We can always come back another time, when you’ve calmed down,” she told him tartly.

David laughed, pulling Dillon in to as tight a hug as he dared before looking back at his mother, father, and two sisters now standing in the entrance. “No,” he told them. “This is the perfect time. I need to introduce you to my fiancé.”

Dillon kissed him hard at that, holding his face with care and pouring forth his love. Whatever happened next, David decided, he would be able to make it through. They would make it through together.


End file.
